I'm Not Dead, Just a Little Broken
by FaithfullyShipping
Summary: When Sherlock returns, will everything be the same or will their world turn upside down? With Sherlock in recovery, and John struggling with his feelings for the detective, the crime-fighting duo have a lot to talk about. Eventual Johnlock, I promise . Hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_I'm not dead, let's have dinner –SH_

The text had shaken John to his very core. Made him question _everything._ He sat, numbly staring at the yellow smiley face on the wall. Could Sherlock Holmes still be alive, roaming London, unnoticed? No. No, Sherlock was dead. John had seen him die. Watched him fall to the pavement, cracking his skull. Crushing the life out of him with a sickening thump.

He sat for a full five minutes before another text vibrated the phone. Did he dare look at it? Of course he dared, he had nothing to fucking lose. John pulled out the phone, and despite the circumstances, had to chuckle at the message he received.

_I was hoping for a more enthusiastic response than silence –SH _

John messaged back, hoping for answers. All he got was a tedious conversation that led to nothing.

_Look out the front window –SH_

_Why should I –JW_

_Well I figured you would want proof that I was still alive. I trekked through the London weather, John. A little reciprocation would be nice. –SH_

_You promise this is you? –JW_

_Yes. Now look out the bloody window, it's cold. –SH_

Good old Sherlock; pushy and controlling. John got up from the armchair, and hesitantly looked out the foggy window. There, standing across the street from 221B, stood a tall, dark form. A form with dark ringlets atop his head, and a coat down to his calves. John ran out the door, throwing on a pair of slippers as he went. He nearly got himself killed as he sprinted in front of a cab. As he reached the other side of the pavement, he stopped dead.

Sherlock had never looked worse. Never. His cheeks had sunken so deep that his cheekbones were even more prominent than they normally were. Even though his coat covered most of his body, John could tell that Sherlock had lost at _least _20 pounds. His hair was unruly, the tell-tale curls even more tangled than normal. It was a pretty horrible picture, seeing his friend like this. But his eyes. His eyes held more pain and suffering than ever. The detective smiled slightly, but John could tell that he was broken and hurting. Glad to be home, but still hurting.

"Long time, no see," Sherlock prodded, trying to force the look of absolute shock off of John's face. Not that he had expected any different. It was always a bit shocking when your best friend came back from the dead. Before he could let out another comment, he was wrapped in a tight embrace. If you could call it that. This was more like an emotional attack. John's arms wrapped around the detective's waist, pressing his forehead into the folds of Sherlock's coat. His shuddering sobs were barely audible, just a muffled sound among all the noises of London. But to Sherlock they were an expression of all the pain he had caused John. Normally the detective would have shoved away anyone who attempted to hug him. But John wasn't just anyone. When the doctor finally pulled away, he looked as bad as Sherlock felt.

"So you're back. You're really back. This isn't my mind playing a trick on me? Not some stupid stunt?" John asked, his eyes scrutinizing every surface of the tall man in front of him.

"No, no definitely not. I'm here now. I promise."

"Good, because I wouldn't be able to go on if this wasn't actually you," John said, his voice cracking with emotion, obviously trying to hold back the tears that streamed down his face anyway. "Now get inside. My feet went numb a long time ago."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock breathed it in. The smell of chemicals and old books filled his nostrils, now a familiar scent. It appeared as if nothing had changed. Furniture sat in the same places as before, books remained almost untouched, and other than a thin layer of dust on his beakers and test tubes, everything looked the same as the last time he saw it. But the air felt… darker. Everything felt a little bit numb. If inanimate objects could be numb. Or feel anything for that matter… Sherlock shook his head, trying to shake the pointless thoughts out of his mind.

"So… Nothing's really changed…" John started out hesitantly. He looked over at the detective and Sherlock could see the worry in his eyes. He knew the question that would eventually pop out of the doctor's mouth, but he certainly wasn't eager to answer it. He plopped into his armchair, exhausted and feeling far from alright. The past two years had been hell, actually. Hunger pains shot through his stomach.

"John. Food. Please." Sherlock managed to say, taking shaky breaths. The shaky breathing was due to something far worse than hunger, but food would do for now.

Within a few minutes, John brought the some leftover chicken as well as a bag of biscuits. Sherlock dug in, never having been more grateful for store-bought biscuits and leftover chicken. When the plate was clean and the bag was halfway empty, he sat back. He looked around the flat, looking fondly at all of the things he had missed so much. As his eyes reached the bullet holes in the wall, he smiled. "Bored…" he muttered, chuckling slightly. He looked over at John, and the smile faded from his face, replaced by an expression of worry. His flatmate had retreated. John had been more than welcoming when he had met Sherlock on the street, but he could see that John wanted answers, and did not intend on waiting for them much longer. He sighed. "Well you look like you are about to explode, so go ahead. Ask what I know you want to ask," he said, slight annoyance creeping into his voice.

"Fine. Since you know exactly what I'm going to ask, give me the answer," John spat. He immediately felt terrible. Yes, he had a right to be mad, but he had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock was beyond broken. Acting as furious as he was would definitely not help. So he decided to err on the side of calm. From then on, at least.

Sherlock slowly unbuttoned each of his shirtsleeves, rolling them up to his biceps. John watched intently. The sight that he was greeted with made him want to cry out. Yes, Sherlock was an addict. But this was worse than he could have imagined.

Red splotchy circles covered his forearms, where the Nicotine patches had been slapped on, then torn off, one too many times. A bandage had been tightly wrapped around

his left bicep, covering an injury that John promised to look at later. But the thing that made him deflate completely and took his strength away was the smattering of bruised tract marks covering both of Sherlock's arms.

As if he hadn't spent enough time crying and screaming into his pillows for the past 2 years, sobs wracked the doctor's body. He finally managed to sputter out, "So that's how bad it got."

A silence filled the room before the deep, resonating voice replied, "Yes."

"How many times."

"I lost count."

"Sherlock, you don't lose count. How. Many. Times." John was practically growling out the last three words. Sherlock sighed, admitting defeat to himself before breathing deeply and saying softly, "At least 74."

John felt like he had been punched in the stomach. A heart-wrenching sob shook his whole body. Everything they had been through together. All of the struggles. All of confiscation. All the fights that ended in slamming doors. None of it mattered anymore. Sherlock had been completely clean on the day he "died" and by the time he came back, he would have to start the journey all over again, from the very start.

"John. It's alright. I'm back now." Sherlock said in his usual flat tone.

"No! It's not alright!" John bellowed out, standing up. "You left for 2 whole years, Sherlock. While you were gone, you did cocaine AT LEAST 74 TIMES. You come back, show me the mess you've made of yourself, and think I'll be fine? Do you expect things to go straight back to normal? Or do you plan on shooting cocaine until your dying day?"

A rumble went through Sherlock before he shot up out of his seat and towered above John, his eyes glinting with pain and anger.

"Do you have any fucking idea what I've been through? Do you have a clue what I've had to deal with? How many times I wished I were a better man? How many times I held that needle, trembling, and thought of you? No. You don't have the slightest idea about the hell that I have been through for the past 2 years. How much times pain has shot through my body, or how many times I would rather be dead than alive in the life I was living," Sherlock practically screamed. He glared at John with piercing eyes, daring him to say something. John just stared back, stunned into silence.

"I came to you as a man about this. I expected anger, but what you just gave me wasn't just anger. It was pain, and so much more than just that," Sherlock slipped into a deducing stare, using his talents in a cold, vengeful manner. "You're trembling right now. Now, that could be from anger, and part of it is. But mostly, you are scared. You are hurting. And for once in your life, you have no idea what to do. But the pain that you currently feel, while very strong and very, well, painful, is absolutely nothing compared to the amount of pain I have suffered through to even come here tonight. To get past my enemies. To admit what I did. As odd as the idea may seem to you, I spent at least an hour of my day, each day, sobbing or screaming, or squeezing my eyes shut until the pain went away. I know that seeing me like this is not pleasant. Unbeknownst to you, I have very good mental picture of my current condition. I am broken and bruised, this I know. What I didn't know was that my former flatmate would tear me apart when I admitted to what I did wrong." Sherlock was crying now, tears spilling onto his perfectly sculpted cheekbones. But his glare did not soften. John stared, tears threatening to run down his face. He blinked them back. Sherlock stomped off, and before he slammed the door to his bedroom, he spat out, "Good to be back."

John walked to his bedroom, completely spent. He rolled into bed, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he started shaking. A single sob choked out of his throat, full of grief, pain, and a whole lot more that he was not willing to identify at the moment. Silent tears streamed down his face for the last time that night, sending him off into an oddly

dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for a second that I am one of them."_

_"Goodbye John." _

_"This phone call… it's my note." _

_"You. Are. Me." _

_"Kill myself. Complete your story."_

_"Goodbye John."_

_"Ordinary…"_

_"Goodbye John."_

_"Goodbye John."_

_"Goodbye John."_

Sherlock woke up soaked in sweat and trembling. He shot up out of bed, looking out into the darkness. Three in the morning. At least that's what his clock said. His final words before The Fall echoed through his mind. Sherlock realized he was crying. Silent tears streamed down his face as he remembered that last conversation with the one person he loved the most.

And then the tremors started. "Great," Sherlock muttered. "As if crying wasn't bad enough."

They started out small, just little trembles, shaking his hands. But the hell that followed was unimaginable. Sherlock gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn't done any drugs for about 5 days. With the amount that he had been taking, withdrawal would be worse than anything he had been through before.

His whole body shook, aching for more of that euphoric feeling. His joints ached, making it harder to move than it already was with his shaking limbs. White-hot needles of pain shot through every surface of his skin, and his stomach ached terribly. A sheen of sweat started to form on his skin as he struggled to keep his addiction under control. Sherlock grunted out, trying to keep himself from waking John, because he knew that if he didn't put up resistance against his awful symptoms, he would cry out something awful. And so he sat there, suffering, for almost 2 hours, before he decided he had to do something. He considered his options: He could take pain killers and maybe a sleeping pill to help him ignore the pain and sleep; he could just try to sleep it off, and not take any pills at all; he could get up and do an experiment to get his mind off of the issue at hand; or he could do what his body was urging him to do the most. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, pensive. But the decision he made was anything but thoughtful.

He walked to the bathroom, leaning on the walls for support as he fought to stay upright. The ground appeared to wobble beneath his feet as he stumbled into the brightly lit room. He rummaged through all the cabinets and drawers in the bathroom, but came up empty-handed. Clearly John had rid the house of drugs after The Fall.

"No…No, No, No," Sherlock muttered, anxiously looking in every nook and cranny of the flat. Nothing.

By now he could barely move. He tried to get up, but his body didn't agree with the idea. His stomach lurched, causing a pained groan to escape his lips. He heard John rustling, possibly having been awakened by the noise that Sherlock involuntarily made. But he couldn't care less. His vision went blurry, and he curled into the fetal position on the bathroom floor. And that was how John found him the next morning.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up with pained, gleaming eyes, and gave John one small promise of hope.

"I'm sorry."


	4. Not a real chapter!

**Sorry this is not a real chapter, but please listen, for your own knowledge.**

People have asked if I'm going to put up a fourth chapter, and if this will continue, and the answer is **YES.** Definitely.

You should know that I am still in school, and I have lots of homework, so be patient with me. I am not on this computer all the time, and I do not have very much free time due to my schooling.

I'm sorry if you thought this was a real chapter, and I really hope to get that (now 5th?) Chapter finished by sometime this week, maybe this weekend or Monday.

**I love you guys, and I thank you for your continued enthusiastic support!**

**Please keep reading and giving me advice ^.^**

**Xoxo **

**- Z**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat on the couch, sulking. John had found him on the bathroom floor a few minutes prior, exposing last night's intentions. His stomach still ached something awful, causing him to groan out. John walked into the living room, and Sherlock could practically see the inner turmoil in his eyes.

John shuffled into the kitchen to make tea. Oh, John's tea was the best…

"Sherlock. What the hell did you do last night," John said flatly. Sherlock could hear the misery in John's voice. How hopeless he felt. The words jarred Sherlock out of his thoughts of John's tea, and reminded him once again of what he would soon have to face. The pain, the difficulties, and worst of all, the urges. The urges to give himself that euphoric, dreamy feeling. Unfortunately, that dreamy feeling was what had ruined his life. How ironic.

"I think you know exactly what my intentions were John…" Sherlock started out, in his deep baritone voice. And for the first time, John thought, he sounded slightly unsure of himself. "I woke up in the middle of the night, felt the withdrawal symptoms hit me with full force, and knew that some pills would make them go away. So…" Sherlock paused again and sighed, feeling guilt. He had caused John immense pain with this addiction, and his motivation to stop would _be_ John, if anything. Sherlock prided himself on the fact that he was _the_ Sherlock Holmes, known as "the high-functioning sociopath". But lately John made him want to not be that way anymore. John was warm, gentle, and understood him. He couldn't help but feel immense guilt as to the pain he had caused the man who he loved the most.

Sherlock shook his head, willing the thoughts to go away. He had more important issues to deal with at the moment. One of which being to not upset his flatmate more than was necessary and expected.

"Sherlock. I know what you did, and for once in your life, I know this is difficult for you. I want to here it spoken from your lips, so I know that at least you understand why this is hard for me," John gently said, not wanting to provoke the repressed rage that resided within his flatmate.

"Fine. I went to the bathroom first, and the searched the entire flat for something to make the symptoms go away. I couldn't find anything. It got worse. So I laid on the bathroom floor, and slept as much as I could. Which wasn't very much, mind you," Sherlock snapped at the end, trying o take some of the distress out of his voice. But to no avail. His hands started shaking again. John noticed the tremors, as well as the drop of sweat rolling down Sherlock's tense jaw.

"John. Cocaine. Please."

John stared at Sherlock. He was in pain. Before John could think anymore obvious thoughts, his doctor's instinct kicked in, and he half waddled with Sherlock to the Sherlock's room. Sherlock needed to rest, and to fight the impulses to shoot himself up with drugs. The detective barely made it to the bed. He collapsed onto the sheets. The withdrawal pains weren't going to give him time to make himself comfortable, so John just rolled him into the sheets, and tried to ignore the heavy panting and small groans that came from Sherlock's chapped lips. John got a glass of water and a small plate of biscuits, just so Sherlock didn't suffer from dehydration or starvation in addition to the immense pain he was already undergoing. Just as John was about to leave, and let Sherlock face his demons, he heard a small sound come from Sherlock's general direction.

"What?"

"St…"

"Sherlock, I am happy to help you get through this but you have to speak up." A note of anger and worry tainted the otherwise gentle comment. John had a right to be at least slightly angry, right?

And then he heard it. A short few words that somehow meant everything in the world to him.

"Stay. Help me."

John stood still for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed and letting a single tear roll down his face. He was witnessing Sherlock at his weakest. And if Sherlock was willing to call out for help, John would not turn him down at the moment that his best friend needed him the most.

"For the great Sherlock Holmes, anything."

* * *

The next week was filled with awful noises and angry words. Simple as that. Sherlock's withdrawal was a horror to witness. As the week wore on, John stayed by his bedside as often as necessary, attending to his needs, knowing that if Sherlock could survive this he wouldn't even think of ever doing drugs again.

Nightmares continued to plague John, but they were frequently interrupted by Sherlock's cries of pain. They were terrible, really. Sounds of hopelessness, fading into blackness as the detective fell asleep again. John wasn't sure which was worse anymore; his own pain, or his flatmate's.

After a few days of this torture, Sherlock's body gave out. He didn't die, luckily. But he came within inches of his life. The sounds of despair slowly faded away, and were replaced by short, labored breaths. Sherlock panted his way through the next few days, and although the cries of pain were gone, the silence was deafening.

John sat in his armchair, reading the paper, constantly listening for Sherlock's labored breathing, to make sure that his flatmate's soul hadn't left his body yet. If Sherlock had a soul… John chuckled to himself. It was comforting to think that even as the great detective struggled to accomplish the nearly impossible, a tad of humor could still be slipped in here and there.

John heard a shuffling coming from Sherlock's room, and turned around to see the detective himself shuffling slowly, and with difficulty, towards the living room. Sherlock plopped down on the couch, and huffed out the first words he had spoken in days:

"John. Food. Hungry. Please."

"Sherlock. You're talking. You got out of bed. Are you feeling alright? I mean, you did juts spend the past week and a half crying out and feeling immense pain. I'm surprised you aren't still asleep," John said, slightly worried and in shock, but also glad that Sherlock had the energy to get up and ask for food.

"Yes. I'm sure. My withdrawal symptoms seem to have let up enough to allow me to move, speak, and eat."

Wow. That was a lot of words for an addict in recovery. An addict who hadn't really said anything that made any sense until this morning, at that. John smiled wide despite myself, glad to be able to talk to his detective once again.

"Tea to start you off, and warm you up?"

"Oh god yes."


	6. Chapter 6

After a few more weeks, Sherlock had begun to get up every morning, eating breakfast and watching crap telly. He had managed to gain back the weight that he lost while he was gone, which made him look much healthier. Other than the slight shaking of his hands, and the occasional stomachaches, the detective had begun to recover quite nicely. His addiction no longer ruled his life, and he went back to being his normal, antisocial self. They hadn't had a case in all the weeks that Sherlock was recovering. Lestrade knew about the issue, and provided them with a little extra cash to help out. Thank god for Lestrade…

It was a Tuesday when the snow started falling. John stared out the window, watching the flakes drift by peacefully. These soft little crystals were the only peaceful thing that had happened in quite some time, and he was grateful for it. Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch some time ago, and was now lightly snoring. John turned from his post at the window and gazed at his flatmate. The soft curls on his head were ruffled, and his alabaster skin had a light shimmer to it, reflecting the pattern of the ice crystals on the window. If you looked at him, you would have no idea that just 3 weeks ago, he had been shaking and crying out in pain. If anything, he looked like a baby. A 6 foot tall baby. John giggled shamelessly at the thought.

John walked over to his armchair, situated himself, and picked a book out of the plentiful collection. He got about 5 pages before realizing that the snoring had stopped. When he looked over his book, he was greeted with two piercingly blue eyes staring right back at him.

"I see you're awake."

"Indeed I am. I heard you rustling in your chair."

"Tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Sherlock nestled back into a comfortable position on the couch as John stood up and walked to the kitchen, unable to hold back a smile. It was funny that one of the only things he and Sherlock bonded over and agreed on was tea. How very bloody British of them.

John boiled the water, poured it, and dropped a tea bag into each mug. He stared at the darkening mahogany liquid, and let his mind wander, eventually getting into an argument with himself.

_When's the next case?_

_When will Sherlock be well enough to go out again?_

_Am I really that concerned with Sherlock's safety?_

_Obviously. _

_Why?_

_Because I was so alone and I owe him so much. _

_Did you really just use that line against yourself? _

_Yes. _

_Do you love Sherlock?_

_Yes. _

The answer that John had given himself startled him. He hadn't really expected to mentally wander that far into the unknown. And yes, that realm was quite unknown. With Sherlock in recovery, John hadn't really given it much thought, but when it came down to it, yes. He loved the detective. As far as John was concerned, Sherlock had never had a relationship. Or been interested in anyone. So even bringing it up would be a huge risk. Especially with Sherlock on edge, as he had been lately.

John poured cream into the tea, stirred it, and walked back to the living room with the two mugs in hand. He handed one to Sherlock, who gave a little grunt of content. John smiled. Even with the little quirks and the addiction, Sherlock was pretty amazing. No, not amazing. Perfect. John shook his head, trying not to think about it too much. It was too soon after the recovery. He didn't want to say something he would regret.

Sherlock's hands trembled slightly as he held the mug, taking a sip.

"What were you thinking about?"

The question nearly caused John to drop his tea. After a moment of swirling thoughts, it clicked into place. Of course Sherlock knew he had been thinking. The only advantage that John had in this situation was the fact that no matter how hard Sherlock tried; it was impossible to deduce exactly _what_ a person was thinking. Especially when the thoughts going through John's head were uncharted territory.

"I- I was just thinking about… you," John hesitated as he said it. It was at least partially true. Sherlock didn't need to know the details.

"What about me?"

"Just… How you've been. You know, with you being back and all."

"Your ears turned slightly red while you were thinking, John. I am far from stupid, as you know. You were either thinking of something embarrassing, or something of a sensitive and possibly shameful nature. Well shame is a wasted emotion, my dear friend. Now spit it out. What goes through that funny head of yours."

John felt his ears turn hot and red once more. Sherlock noticed (as he was bound to do) and smirked slightly, pleased with his handiwork.

"Good to be back…" he sighed, sitting back in his seat and crossing his legs. A smug expression took up residence on his face, and a smile tugged at his lips as he looked at his flatmate, reading the shocked expression on John's face like a book. And what he saw scared him slightly.

John loved him. Sherlock couldn't tell what kind of love, though. He pondered the subject. Was it friendly? Romantic? Sexual? The last one made him feel slightly awkward. Regardless of the category, John loved him. The thought still scared him. No one had ever truly _loved_ him. The most affection he had ever gotten was when Irene Adler sat on his lap, naked. If you could call that affection.

He didn't know how to deal with this. Did he tell John? Did he ignore it and hope that it was purely friendly affection? Did he admit to his own feelings? No. He couldn't do that. Too big of a step.

John's voice jolted him out of his swirling thoughts.

"You alright?"

"No."

And with that, Sherlock stood up abruptly and walked swiftly to his bedroom, shutting the door.

"You have got to be kidding me…" John muttered as he realized what may or may not have happened. Of course Sherlock had to read his reactions and make a deduction. Of course he knew what John had been thinking.

John moved over to the couch, snuggling under the blanket that Sherlock had previously been under. It was still warm. John shook his head, smiling a little bit.

_Why the hell are you doing this. _

_This is ridiculous. _

_Not to mention weird. _

_Maybe a bit creepy. _

_But the blanket is warm…_

_It smells like Sherlock. _

_Okay yeah, this is weird. _

But John didn't care. The muffled sound of a violin playing echoed throughout the house, making John feel more at home than he ever had. He allowed the gentle winter glow of the snow outside and the soft notes of the violin send him into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

John awakened to the song of silence. The flat was bright and cold, not to mention empty. He got up slowly, stretching his limbs. The couch was not exactly a therapeutic mattress.

John reached for his phone, and texted the detective, wondering where the hell he could be at 7:00 AM.

_Just woke up. Where are you? –JW _

_I went out for a stroll. Needed some air. –SH _

_Usually I'm the one who needs air after a spat. –JW _

_I decided to be adventurous. –SH _

_See you in a little while. –SH _

_Alright. Goodbye. –JW_

About 20 minutes later, John heard steps ascending the stairs to their flat, signaling Sherlock's arrival. He turned his head just in time to see the familiar head of midnight curls disappear into the bathroom. He heard the water running, and soon after, the sound of Sherlock's body plunking into the steaming water. John just hoped that Sherlock wouldn't let the water overflow again.

Sherlock sat in the bath, in deep thought. Maybe John loving him wasn't so bad. He would have to say something _eventually_, wouldn't he? And it wasn't as if Sherlock was unhappy with it wither way. He had felt affection towards the doctor for quite some time. If only there was a way to confirm John's feelings…

An hour later, Sherlock's nearly naked form emerged from the bathroom, and he laid down on the couch. A towel had been slung low 'round his hips, and his damp curls glistened in the early morning light. The picture presented surely didn't leave much to the imagination. John felt a stirring deep in the pit of his stomach, and he quickly looked away, hoping to find something else in the room to take interest in.

"What?" Sherlock's deep, baritone voice said. John could hear the smugness in his tone, without even looking at the detective's face. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing. He knew perfectly well that his lean, pale, and slightly muscular form would make John feel something that he wasn't quite ready to confront or indulge in.

John looked over at Sherlock's still steaming form, and his eyes traveled over the porcelain skin in front of him. He knew his eyes said more than his mouth ever would. Sherlock intentionally stretched his body out a little more, defining his abdominal muscles just a _little _bit more. John coughed awkwardly.

"It's cold, you sure you don't want to put something on?"

"I just got out of the bath, I'm _steaming_."

"Sherlock, it's December."

"So?" Sherlock practically purred the single word out, grinning from ear to ear.

"So you should put some damned clothes on!" John's face was bright crimson by now, which only caused Sherlock's suspicions of John's more-than-friendly affection towards him to grow. He gave in, and headed to his bedroom to put on his now well-known plum shirt and jet-black suit jacket. Just before John could safely let out a defeated sigh, Sherlock popped his head out of the door, and smirked before saying only two words. Two words that crushed John's hopes of still being John Hamish "Not Gay" Watson.

"Suspicions confirmed."


	7. Chapter 7

A few days passed since "The Bath Incident", and they had been filled with John's awkward stares and Sherlock's smirks. Two facial expressions that everyone knew all too well by now. The whole situation was one big time bomb waiting to go off. No one knew when the timer was set for, and no one knew if it would catch fire and go off at all. All that anyone at Scotland Yard knew was the amount of money that each of them had put into the pool. Lestrade would probably end up making at least 1000 quid when this was all over with.

By the time that Friday night rolled around, the tension between the two was unbearable. And it wasn't just in the flat, either. Every time that the crime-solving duo stepped into Scotland Yard, everyone shuffled around awkwardly. Even Donovan and Anderson.

But on that night, the night that most people are out having fun and getting drinks, John and Sherlock were doing quite the opposite. Well, at least they were "out". But limping to the apartment, covered in blood, was not exactly John's idea of a good night "out".

"Sherlock you have got to be kidding me."

"What?"

"It's not necessarily your fault, but you literally have wounds everywhere."

"You are precisely right John. It isn't my fault." Sherlock sucked in the last word, wincing as John put pressure on his bruised ribs. John sighed, standing up.

"Yup, definitely fractured. Nothing we can't fix, I suppose," He said, taking Sherlock's dislike of hospitals into account.

"You haven't taken any of my clothing off at all. You usually find it necessary to strip me to the bare minimum." Sherlock's deep baritone voice said questioningly. John cleared his throat and hesitated before saying, "It wasn't necessary until this point."

"John. Stand up."

"Why."

"My injuries can wait. Just stand up."

John slowly got up off his knees, just in time to see Sherlock's feet disappear out the bathroom door. John followed, and wasn't exactly surprised to see Sherlock propped up on the couch, in his classic "thinking position".

"Sherlock I was attempting to diagnose you. You have quite the number and variety of injuries. What are you doing now."

After enduring a minute of silence, John decided it might be best to take a seat across from the currently pensive Sherlock and wait it out. That was John's first mistake. The time bomb started ticking.

"Why did you move? You're distracting me."

_Tick tick tick_

"I'm not just going to stand in the doorway for an hour while you sit and think."

"This won't take an hour. It's a fairly simple decision."

"What decision?"

_Tick tick tick_

"You'll see in a moment, just shut up."

"Sherlock if you're going to be rude, I'm not going to stay and listen to whatever this _decision _is."

"John, _please _shut up."

"That's slightly better."

_Tick tick tick _

"Okay I think I've decided." Sherlock sighed, grimacing slightly. His ribs still hadn't been treated.

"Okay so will you finally tell me?"

_Tick tick tick _

"I was deciding on whether or not to tell you something important. Well, important to me, at least. It's something that I've dealt with for quite some time and figured that since you're the subject of this "something", you should be the first to know. But I'm not sure what will happen, and if it will ruin this arrangement that we have, and I'm just not sure."

Thoughts spun around in Sherlock's head, clouding his judgment. A wave of emotions flooded over him, causing something that John called, "Sherly Tantrum". Sherlock hated the name. Absolutely _hated _it. The word play was rather clever, and it fit perfectly. Which was part of the reason the detective couldn't stand it.

Sherlock started breathing deeply, shaking violently as he did so. A single tear slipped down his cheek, dropping off his face and beading off of his blue dressing gown. If John said something in this moment, the time bomb would go off. Unfortunately, John didn't know this, and so he said something.

_Tick tick tick _

"Sherlock whatever you say, I won't be angry. I won't react as I did when you came back after 2 years, still an addict. I will… No, I _promise _that I will react as I did while you were recovering. Kind and reassuring. Sherlock I know you spent the last 2 years in a living hell. I know that you are used to pain, suffering, and loneliness. But I also want you to know that you are safe here. In all ways."

_BOOM. _

Sherlock looked up so quickly that he saw stars.

"John I don't really think you do know. Think about what you just said. You said that I am safe here. In all ways. The first part of that statement was correct. The second part however, sets my teeth on edge. I am safe here in the sense that there is only so much physical harm that the outside world can cause. But what about emotional harm. I have clearly been caused much emotional pain while indoors. Take the past few months, for example. I have been both an emotional and a physical wreck for quite some time. And it's all been inside this flat. I'm not safe anywhere."

Sherlock looked back down at his lap, squeezing his eyes shut. The tears that he was trying to contain escaped anyway, and he let out a shaky breath.

John slowly walked over, and sat down next to the detective on the couch. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, attempting to comfort the shaking man. Sherlock scooted closer, resting his head on John's chest.

"Sherlock. When I say that you are safe here, I meant it. Regardless of what you may think, I could never judge you. I would never leave this flat because of something you said or did. So please, tell me."

Sherlock sat up slowly, and looked at John with puffy eyes.

"John I believe that when I let you move in, it was because I thought I had found someone who completed me. I am the most irritating and unpleasant man that you could have ever come across. And yet you chose to live with me. To solve crimes with me. And most importantly, to care for me. Somehow, that gave me a more human half. And what I am about to say exposes that human half, and reveals something quite large. Do you promise that you won't leave."

"I promise."

Sherlock sat up tall, and ran his hand through his gorgeous curls before saying, "Quite simply, I love you. More than I have ever loved someone before. You have a warm and comforting quality that makes me feel at home. You make me feel secure. You accept me for who I am. You complete me, and losing you would drive me to death."

John leaned closer to the detective, and lifted his chin with two fingers.

"Sherlock, I believe that there is a single moment when two people can either catch fire, or drift apart."

Sherlock's breath was warm as he leaned towards John. Sherlock continued to move forwards until their noses and foreheads were touching.

"Is this that moment?"

"Yes."

"John, do you wish to catch fire?"

"Oh god yes."

As their lips collided, all tension was released. Everything that the spoken word could not say was felt in that moment. Love. Passion. Pain. Warmth. Attachment. All of the walls came crashing down as the detective and the doctor pulled away, looking into each other's eyes.

John chuckled before rolling his eyes and saying, "You still have to be treated."

"I know. Can it wait until morning?"

"If it means that I can lay here with you until then, then yes."

"I love you."

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."


	8. Chapter 8

Both John and Sherlock knew that they had something real. They knew that this was wonderfully new, and taking pleasure in it would not be difficult. The two loved each other more than either had ever loved another human being. John and Sherlock were incredibly happy with one another, and wrapped up in their own little world. But Lestrade benefited as well. He did indeed win 1,200 quid.

* * *

"Merry Christmas Sherlock."

John sat up in bed and stretched a little bit. Sherlock rolled over onto his side to face John. His hair was ruffled and his eyes were still drooping, eager to continue sleeping. But John couldn't sleep. It was Christmas.

"You did remember Christmas, right?"

"I tried. I remember you saying something about decorating a tree."

"Close enough. You have to help me decorate said tree. I'm too short to reach the top bit."

Sherlock groaned. John grinned in response. The inhabitants of 221B had a tradition of putting everything off to the last minute, and the tree was no exception. He had purposefully bought a Christmas tree that was too tall for him to fully decorate alone, so that Sherlock would have to roll his sorry ass out of bed and participate in the festivities.

John rolled out of bed, and put on his robe. Sherlock groaned once again. John smiled, pulling the robe tighter around him, missing the warmth that the detective provided. Clearly Sherlock felt the same way, otherwise he wouldn't be looking like a bedsheet-burrito.

"Sherlock, c'mon. For me."

Sherlock literally _rolled _out of bed, landing with a thump on the floor. He wriggled his way upright and wrapped John in a warm embrace before kissing him and whispering in that rich baritone voice, "Only for you."

John grinned as he watched Sherlock shuffle into the living room in his white bedsheet. Even on Christmas, Sherlock couldn't avoid being, well… Sherlock. John followed after the detective, and walked into the kitchen to make tea, as Sherlock plopped himself down on the couch.

A blanket of snow had settled over London, glistening and untouched. The small crystals on the window refracted the light of the winter sun and created little rainbows that flickered across the living room. One had landed directly on Sherlock's face, casting a brightly colored glow across the detective's perfect cheekbones. Oh, the irony. Dark and sulking Sherlock Holmes, covered in a rainbow shimmer on Christmas morning.

John walked over with tea in hand, and handed one mug to Sherlock. Their morning rituals would never change, even if everything else did. Sherlock stood up and dropped his bed sheet, revealing his amazingly smooth alabaster skin, and _only_ his alabaster skin. In other words, the man was completely and utterly naked. John sat and stared for a moment. Sherlock turned around to face John, and grinned at the stunned expression on his face.

"Merry Christmas, John."

And with that, he disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. John chuckled. It was quite the gift, seeing Sherlock in all his glory.

Once Sherlock had emerged from the bathroom (with his steaming skin and glistening curls, mind you), the two began to decorate the tree. John decorated one side, Sherlock the other. Small bobbles hung on the luscious pine needles, and tinsel shone bright, creating quite the festive mood. The detective and his doctor would peek out from opposite sides of the tree once in a while, to share a kiss, smile, and go back to decorating. It was peaceful in the silence, yet vibrant and anticipatory. When both John and Sherlock were finished, they decided to rotate the tree, and judge each other's work. However when they did, each burst out in giggles. At least it wasn't a crime scene.

Sherlock's half of the tree was all cool colors, with an organized system for hanging ornaments. Silver tinsel weaved in between darkly colored ornaments, creating an organized yet ominous vibe. Oddly comforting, but always a bit out of reach. Exactly like Sherlock. John's side was all reds and oranges, golden tinsel dipping and ducking among brightly colored and intricately decorated ornaments, which was basically John in Christmas tree form. Warm and vibrant. Caring yet complicated. Either side of the tree represented the person who decorated it. And regardless of the fact that it looked rather ridiculous, John and Sherlock loved it.

"This looks ridiculous," John sighed, smiling from ear to ear.

"Well, we are ridiculous, aren't we?"

"Indeed."

Sherlock swept John into a deep kiss, holding firmly to his waist. Letting him know that he would never leave again.

"I have a present for you. You're going to hate it. But it's a Watson tradition."

"Now I'm scared."

"You should be."

John smirked as he retrieved the neatly wrapped package from his room. As he walked back into the living room, he found Sherlock sitting in his boxers yet again.

"What is with you and not wearing clothes?"

"I anticipated that your present would be wearable. So I stripped down. I assume you aren't giving me boxers, so I left those on."

"Just open it, you insufferable twat," John laughed as he handed Sherlock his gift. Sherlock delicately took off the wrapping paper, and held up his present. The look on his face was absolutely priceless.

"It's hideous."

John scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. He looked down, and what he didn't see was Sherlock pulling the giant red Christmas jumper over his head. When John looked up again, he couldn't hold back a snorting laugh. Sherlock stood in front of him in his boxers and the jumper, his lean and muscular frame a huge contrast against the baggy comfort of the jumper. Sherlock jumped on him, wrapping him in a hug.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure. Now I think you might want to put on some trousers."

"Not a chance."

Sherlock let go, and stared into John's eyes. Comfort, warmth, security, safety, love, and so much more. Every good feeling that could possibly exist washed over Sherlock when he looked John in the eyes. John stared right back, feeling alive as he looked into the detective's piercing eyes.

"You know I could stay like this forever."

"We have to start Christmas dinner."

"You had to ruin the moment."

"We have guests coming over for dinner! Usually I'd choose you over ham, I promise."

"You love me more than ham? What a commitment," Sherlock said, the sarcasm in his voice dripping like honey. He gave John a trademark half-smile.

"Guilty as charged."

* * *

The flames in the fireplace cast an orange glow across the living room, creating the illusion of flickering fire on the walls. The savory smell of ham wafted from the kitchen, where John was hard at work. Everything was cooking, only about an hour until they could dine. The company would be arriving soon. Sherlock sat on a stool at the counter, watching his doctor bustle about. If only John knew the Christmas present that Sherlock had planned for him.

"John, could you take a break from dinner for a moment?"

"I'm a bit busy, what for?"

"I thought you loved me more than ham."

John grinned wide, and strode towards Sherlock.

"Alright, what do you want?" he asked playfully. Sherlock took his hand and led John into the living room.

"Well, you gave me this hideous jumper, which I do genuinely love, by the way." Sherlock flopped his arms around in the jumper. "So now it's my turn to give you a present, before our company arrives."

Sherlock grabbed his violin, and stood before John, more nervous than he had ever been.

"You should sit down. I composed something for you, while I was gone. And I just recently finished it yesterday. I think you'll understand once you hear it."

John sat down, a questioning smirk crossing his face. A smile tugged at Sherlock's lips as he laid his bow across the strings.

"Just listen."

The music started out slow, and rather dreary. A minor chord traveled throughout the notes. Then it started to pick up rather quickly. The music seemed a bit unsure for a few moments, and then security and assurance worked their way into the music. Eighth and sixteenth notes leaped among the occasional half note. The rhythm seemed an adventure in itself. Joyful notes bounded quickly across the strings of the violin. Sherlock had his eyes closed, letting himself slip away into his masterpiece. The tune got a bit quieter, and slowly built some suspense. Ominous undertones could be heard beneath the joyful façade. Suddenly, a dramatic and sour note struck through the score. A minor key took over, and long, sad notes traveled around the room. And as those sad notes rung out, John understood.

This was their story. His and Sherlock's. The beginning of the song reflected John's life without Sherlock, and their adventures together had been the middle. Their ridiculous journeys and dangerous friendship were the happiest part of John's life. The bit that brought John to tears was that one sour note. The Fall. That moment as he saw Sherlock on the pavement, dead as dead could be. His grief danced along with the long sad notes that were currently being played. Just as he was about to burst out in tears, he heard the cheerful half notes that signaled Sherlock's return. It was peaceful, and content. Exactly had John had felt that night. Sherlock opened his eyes, and ended the piece on a long major chord. His whole body shook.

"Your life. Our life. I tried to reflect it in my music," Sherlock stammered out. He hadn't expected to feel so drained.

"It was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Honest." John got up and placed his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock gave a sad smile, resting his own forehead against John's. They stood there for a moment, taking in what had happened.

"How are you so incredible."

"I'm not. I'm just artistic. Some may say to the point of distracted."

Sherlock sighed, holding onto John like he was a life preserver.

"You just gave me more than your music. You gave me your heart. Not many can say that they've even seen your heart. But you chose to share it with me, of all people. That was the best Christmas present you could've given me."

"I gave you music."

"You gave me your heart."

"That isn't possible."

"Don't be so literal."

"I'll try."

Their lips met gently, cautiously exploring. The doorbell, a clear ring throughout 221B, interrupted them.

"I should probably get that."

"Is that code for "I love you?""

"I love you."

"I should probably get that."

"Shut up you git."

"Certainly not."


	9. Chapter 9

"Sherlock we're in the papers!"

Sherlock walked into the living room, an air of discomfort around him.

"I really wish we weren't."

Sherlock sat down in his armchair, and crossed his legs. He sat silently for a moment, adjusting his suit jacket. Something wasn't right about it.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?"

"Hm?" Sherlock didn't look up from his suit jacket, which he was so nervously adjusting.

"Don't pretend you didn't hear me."

"Fine. I don't like our relationship being in the papers. What we have is ours, not the world's. I don't want to have to share you. Before it was just me in the papers, now it's you too."

"Sherlock, you'll never have to share me. I'm yours, I promise."

The detective looked up from his fidgeting fingers and stared at John. He searched John's face for some sort of joke, some sort of dismissive twitch. But John's deep blue eyes were staring right back, a loving gaze crossing his face.

"You meant that?"

"Of course I meant that."

"I love you. And do genuinely hope that I'll never have to share you."

"I love you too, now will you please get milk? For once? I'm cold."

"But that's not my job."

"It is now."

Sherlock sighed, and got up from his chair. He walked over slowly, holding John's gaze. The detective sat on John's lap, straddling him. He pulled John closer to him, and traced soft kisses from his collarbone to his cheek. He pulled away slowly, and rested his forehead against John's and stared into his eyes, giving his best smolder. The detective trapped John's lips in a deep kiss, their cupid's bows fitting together perfectly. John pulled away slowly and raised his eyebrows at the detective.

"Will you go get milk now?"

"Damn, I thought that would work."

Sherlock got off of John, grinning as he grabbed his coat and started to descend the stairs.

"Could we continue when you get back?" John yelled after Sherlock.

There was no hesitation in the response that came just before the door slammed shut.

"It would be my pleasure, Dr. Watson."

* * *

John stared at the clock. It had been nearly an hour since he had sent Sherlock out to go get milk. Yes, Sherlock would wander sometimes, and more than occasionally he would get into a whole lot of trouble. But he always texted.

_Where are you? –JW _

_Getting milk. Isn't that what you asked? –SH _

_Yes, but it shouldn't take this long. –JW _

_Be patient, my blogger. I'm fine. You'll see soon enough. –SH_

John set down the phone, pondering what Sherlock could _possibly _be doing that was so secret. Was there reason to be concerned? Or was everything fine? Was this a happy surprise? Questions swam through John's mind, confusing him. In the end, he decided to give himself the benefit of the doubt. Surely Sherlock would tell him if something was amiss.

A few minutes later, John heard the downstairs door slam, and Sherlock stumble. He also heard the crinkling of grocery bags. Lots and lots of grocery bags.

"Do you need help with the bags?" John shouted down the stairs.

"Thank you for the offer, but no. Stay exactly where you are, and don't look." Sherlock demanded as he climbed the stairs. John turned his armchair to face the wall, and continued reading the newspaper that he had picked up earlier. He heard the rustling of grocery bags, and the sound of the stove turning on. Finally his curiosity got the better of him, and he turned around. And there stood Sherlock. Busting about the kitchen, attending to at _least_ 4 dishes. The best part? He was wearing an apron.

"Sherlock, what in god's name are you doing?" John asked, smiling playfully.

"John, I told you not to look!" the detective complained, sounding almost child-like. He hurried around the kitchen, stirring and changing temperatures on the stove and oven. John strode towards him slowly, looking around the kitchen with pleasant confusion.

"John, I was going to surprise you!"

"You have surprised me! Honest to god, Sherlock. I had no idea you could cook."

Sherlock shrugged and smiled.

"I grew up in a wealthy household in the countryside. I watched the cooks make elaborate dishes for my entire childhood, and as I got older, I realized that I had memorized nearly every recipe. Every ingredient, amount, cooking time, and instruction. Right down to the details. And tonight, I decided to take a risk and try it for myself." Sherlock smiled sheepishly at John, his plans for the evening becoming clear.

"You're going to spoil me, aren't you."

"Maybeeee…"

"Come here you gorgeous twat, you," John teased as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and brought him closer, kissing the detective's lips with passion and a tinge of lust. But just a tinge. The rest would come later…

"I have to admit, I never thought I'd see you in an apron, cooking me a magnificent dinner, Sherlock Holmes."

"Life's full of surprises, correct?" Sherlock asked, smirking.

"I also never thought I'd say that you look sexy in that apron."

"Then say it."

"Sherlock c'mon, that's cruel!" John laughed, walking back to the living room.

"Say it!" Sherlock shouted back, taking up a mockingly majestic pose to show off his apron-clad figure.

"Fine! Sherlock Scott Holmes, you look sexy as hell in that apron," John laughed, sitting himself down on the couch to watch Sherlock cook some more.

"Why thank you, John Hamish Watson," Sherlock responded, teasingly.

John smiled, and settled under a blanket to continue reading. He figured it would take quite some time before their grand dinner was ready.

* * *

"John! Dinner's ready!" a call came from the kitchen. John smiled and inhaled deeply. Even from here, he could smell the incredible dishes that Sherlock had prepared. He walked over to the kitchen, taking in all he could.

The list of foods included mashed potatoes, a garden salad, deliciously seasoned squash soup, a pile of chicken legs, linguini, a large fillet of rockfish, rib-eye steak, vegetable kebabs, and Sheppard's pie.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. I knew you were making a big dinner, but this is fantastic!"

Sherlock shrugged, and smiled once more.

"There's no real theme, but I went all out. I remembered as many dishes as I could that I could make using foods from the British grocery store. Does it look alright?"

"Like I said," John walked towards Sherlock and kissed him lightly. "It looks fantastic."

"Well sit down, and serve up! I'll be there in a second; I just have to make sure that the rum chocolate soufflé is doing well. And yes, I know how to bake. Courtesy of Mummy Holmes."

John grinned and sat down at the table, piling a bit of everything onto his plate. It all looked delicious. And it was all for him. God, Sherlock really was the best detective/cook/baker/boyfriend in London.

The dinner was absolutely lovely. Everything not only looked delicious, but also tasted _phenomenal._ Sherlock had really outdone himself. If that was possibly, seeing as he was Sherlock Holmes. They laughed loudly and shamelessly, cracking jokes about the members of Scotland Yard and most of all, teasing each other. It was comfortable, and John felt at home.

"A toast." Sherlock said, looking lovingly at John.

"What for?"

"To you. I made this dinner to show how much I appreciate you. You are an incredible man. Brave, kind, intelligent, and strong. You have saved me, in every way possible. When we first met, I was falling and you had the nerve to catch me. And you have held me closely ever since. Over time, as we ran around London together and risked our lives, I realized how much I loved you. When I plummeted from that rooftop, you were all I could think about. How I would be betraying you, and how I might not see you again. But I did. And when I did return, you greeted me with open arms and a loving heart, just as you always have. I honestly cannot thank you enough John. I am insufferable, ridiculous, insane, rude, and so much more. But for some reason, you chose to love me. And I'm certainly not complaining. Cheers."

Sherlock smiled, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He raised his glass, coaxing his blogger to do the same. But he simply couldn't. John got up, walked over to Sherlock, and wrapped his arms tightly around the detective. Sherlock stood up, and wrapped his arms around John as well.

"I love you so much, you know that right?" John asked, his speech muffled by Sherlock's shoulder.

"I love you too John."

"Clearly."

And so they stood there for a few moments. Simply holding each other. Nothing more, nothing less. In that moment, it was just love. Pure and unadulterated love. And maybe a little bit of red wine. But it was mostly love.

* * *

John's blood pumped loudly through his head, giving him a massive headache. He groaned. Maybe it had been more than a _little _red wine. He rolled over onto his side, and was greeted by an equally miserable Sherlock.

"Did we really have that much to drink?"

Sherlock groaned.

"Last I remember was us holding each other. What the bloody hell did we do last night?"

"I haven't the slightest. But judging by the fact that the sheets are missing, the fact that we're completely and utterly naked, _and_ extremely hungover, we got more than a little wasted last night, and then proceeded to have quite some fun."

"Wish I'd been sober enough to remember."

"Me too. Can we try and sleep this off? Or cuddle it off? Can you even cuddle off a hangover?" Sherlock mumbled in a voice even deeper than his usual one.

"You're the smartest man I know, you should know that you can't cuddle off a hangover," John mumbled back, rolling closer to Sherlock.

"Can we try anyway?"

"No objections here."

And so the couple scooted closer, eventually falling asleep, wrapped in nothing but one another's arms.


	10. Chapter 10

"Hey queers! Keep it private!"

John and Sherlock pulled away from a kiss they had been sharing just moments before. It was pouring down rain, but Sherlock could make out a group of adolescent boys across the street. John could feel the detective's muscles flex and un-flex in an attempt to stay calm.

"Sherlock, don't."

But it was too late. Sherlock marched through the pouring rain, towards the group of boys who had yelled at them. Once he got there, he towered over them, glaring at each one of them before doing what he did best- humiliating others with his massive intellect.

"Excuse me, but I do believe that you called me queer, did you not?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Now why would a homosexual, adolescent male call me a queer, when he himself is carrying on a gay relationship with one of the members of this little group?"

The offending boy blushed a bright crimson and stuttered, trying to protest. But Sherlock cut him off.

"How did I know? Oh please, I can see it by the turn-ups of your jeans, your hairline, the top edge of your phone, and the fact that I observed you as you walked by. Small strides, and… Oh yes! The fact that you kept glancing shyly at the boy standing next to you. I'm Sherlock Holmes. You honestly thought I wouldn't unearth your deepest secret?"

Sherlock smirked with satisfaction, and strode back over to John, now soaking wet.

"Sherlock, was that really necessary? Even I could see the way they looked at one another."

"Even you? You make it sound like you aren't up to standard."

"Well I'm sure as hell not as good as you."

"Okay yes that's true."

"Shut up."

John grinned and kissed the detective again, running his hands through Sherlock's wet curls. Damn, they sure were gorgeous…

"Should we go back to the flat? You look cold. Not to mention soaking wet."

Sherlock smiled mischievously before saying, "We could take a hot bath and have a night in."

"We?"

"I do believe that's what I said, John."

"How long does it take to walk back to Baker Street?"

"Approximately 5 minutes."

"If we run, it can be 3."

"Want to try?"

"What do you think, Holmes?"

Sherlock took off, yelling behind him, "Race you there!"

"That's not fair!"

"Since when have I ever played fair?"

* * *

Once they were inside the flat, clothes were off, hair ruffled, and hungry kisses shared. The two stumbled their way to the bathroom, never allowing their lips to part. Sherlock grabbed at John's boxers, tugging them off and dropping them on the floor. As John returned the favor, Sherlock started to run their previously promised bath.

Sherlock, completely and utterly naked, pulled away for a moment to bow sarcastically.

"Ladies first."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John chuckled, staring at Sherlock's incredible physique.

Sherlock grinned and grabbed John by the shoulders and pulled him into the tub, causing them to land with a splash in the scalding water.

"Jesus Sher, slow down!" John laughed comfortably.

"I wasn't aware you didn't want this as quickly as possible. Could've fooled me," Sherlock purred, adjusting his and John's position so that Sherlock was sitting on the bottom of the tub, leaned back, while John was nestled between his boyfriend's parted legs, with his head resting on Sherlock's chest.

"That is so _not_ what I meant," John sighed, finding the detective's hand and intertwining his own tan, short fingers with Sherlock's long, pale ones.

John pushed himself up against Sherlock and nestled his forehead against the familiarly pale collarbone, earning a hum of satisfaction from the gorgeous detective. John smiled wide, squeezing his boyfriend's hand lightly. Sherlock squeezed back, and a light chuckle resonated through his chest.

"This really is lovely."

"Didn't know you were capable of using the word 'lovely' in a sentence, Sher."

Sherlock gasped, mocking offense. He really did love the dramatics of their relationship.

"You know what Sherlock? I never officially thanked you for the toast you made during that incredible dinner."

"No need, John. I wanted to. I love you more than anyone or anything in this world, and I just wanted to show you."

"Can I make my own toast? To you?"

Sherlock chuckled, endlessly impressed by John's selflessness.

"While we're naked. Together. In a bathtub."

"Why not?"

"Fair enough. Go ahead, love."

John took a big breath before grabbing Sherlock's other hand, and beginning what would become the sweetest and most loving thing that had ever been said to the consulting detective.

"Sherlock Holmes. You are insufferable. You set my teeth on edge, and I'm not sure how this came to be. But I have to admit some things. The first time we met, I was speechless for a moment. The way you looked, the way you acted, and Jesus Christ, when you spoke. You saved me from myself. Before we knew one another, I was depressed beyond belief. Suicidal thoughts were not uncommon within my mind. But when I moved in with you, my whole life turned around. This ridiculous lifestyle was something I could never have expected. And I certainly never expected to love it so much. To love _you_ so much. You are so intelligent, amusing, clever, gorgeous, and downright incredible. Every day, you manage to surprise me. And you're right. I am addicted to this adrenaline-filled life. But I just think I was always looking for you: that one person who could give me that rush. The one person who I could spend the rest of my life with."

A short silence followed John's speech; until he felt hot drops hit his shoulder. He looked up to see Sherlock smiling sadly, lightly crying. His eyes met John's, and they sat there for a moment.

"No one has ever said anything like that to me. Never have I met anyone who is as amazing as you, John Watson."

"Well I'm not just anyone, am I. And I thought this was a toast to you. You've already given your share of compliments." John said softly, wiping away the detective's tears. He pushed himself up to kiss Sherlock, tracing a finger along the prominent cheekbone. Both participants melted into the kiss, allowing themselves to drift off into their own world. Nothing else mattered. Just them.

"The rest of your life?" Sherlock pulled away and questioned, a half-smile shaping his perfect lips.

"As long as you'll have me."

"Always."

"Promise?"

"Always."


	11. Chapter 11

John and Sherlock's life had been candy-coated for the entire length of their relationship, and they got a reality check much sooner than they would've liked. It had been a few short months since John's toast to Sherlock, and they hadn't been the best. Less and less cases had started to come in, and the couple was running low on money. Once again, John had had to ask Lestrade for money. It was shameful. And now Sherlock was acting odd. Odder than usual, that is.

* * *

"Why is it that whenever I come home, I find you all jittery? Honest to god, Sherlock, you have been acting a bit odd lately."

John watched as Sherlock paced back and forth. He was sweating, and his hands were trembling.

"What is it, love?" John cautiously asked, anxiously wanting to help.

Sherlock was trembling feverishly now. Dangerously so. He looked at John, desperation painting his face.

"Sherlock, I know the last few months haven't been great, but this looks like something different. You've never acted like this before. Except for when… you know."

And then Sherlock collapsed. He began crying, sobs shaking his body. Now, John had seen a few tears slip down the detective's face, and once in a while he would hear quiet, shuddering sobs coming from Sherlock's room. But it was always quiet. Always discreet. The consulting detective's life was beyond difficult. His mind would start scratching itself raw, a dark shadow falling over his being. Making everything seem lost. Sherlock was incredibly strong. He always kept this secret, trying not to burden others. But now it all came out. Sobs wracked his body as he took in gulping breaths, failing to stay composed.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John cried, hating to see Sherlock like this. He rushed over to hold his boyfriend, trying to keep him steady.

Two single words slipped out of Sherlock's lips, barely audible above his cries.

"I'm sorry."

"Sherlock what are you sorry for." John tried to say comfortingly. An unsettling feeling resided within his stomach, eating at him. This feeling was what told him that Sherlock's sudden collapse had nothing to do with their current financial situation.

"I'm so so so sorry, John. I didn't want to."

"Didn't want to do what, Sher?" John was distressed now, his voice an octave higher than it should've been.

"I- I found an old needle. It still had some cocaine in it. I couldn't help it John I'm so sorry. I let you down."

John sat in shock for a moment. This wasn't possible. Sherlock couldn't be saying this.

John stood up, running his hands through his hair. Anger boiled up inside him, and hot tears slipped down his cheeks.

"Jesus fucking Christ… SHERLOCK! I trusted you to never do drugs again, and then you succumb to something I thought you buried. We're already behind on our rent, and Lestrade is funneling cash out of his own _paycheck _to help us get by."

Sherlock started sobbing harder. He felt awful.

"I just saw it, and I couldn't help it, I just had to."

"No, you didn't!"

Sherlock whipped around, his face red and blotchy. Panic painted his face, as he scanned his blogger's face for some guidance. Somewhere to go. But he saw nothing. John was as lost as he was.

"John I don't know what to do. I am so lost. I feel like I'm floating, ripping myself apart in the process."

"Sherlock, I know you like being dramatic, but this is _not_ the time."

"What do I do?" Sherlock cried out, panicking. He couldn't go back to his life after the Fall. He couldn't go bear going back to the lonely nights, the constant fear, the feeling that there wouldn't be a tomorrow.

John walked over, and held Sherlock firmly by the shoulders. He took a few deep and shuddering breaths before speaking.

"Sherlock, you cannot keep doing this. You have got to get your act together. And I have to admit; you've done _really _well for the past few months. Coming back from what you did while you were playing hide-and-seek, which was amazing. But it does _not _give you a get-out-of-jail-free card."

"John, I know. But do you know what it's like to be an addict? To struggle with an addiction for your entire life? It's a nightmare. It's like running a race, and having to stay in front of your opponent for the entire time. And I did well. I ran as fast as I could, but my opponent… it caught up to me."

Sherlock sniffed, sitting down on the ottoman. He put his head in his hands.

"Very poetic. But you have got to get over this permanently."

"I can! I have to."

"Are you sure about that? Because so far, you haven't proved it. Temporary? You're fine with that. But permanent? Nothing you do is permanent. It never has been. That's not who you are."

Sherlock looked up at John, looking immensely hurt. Usually he would disguise his hurt behind sarcasm, but this time he didn't try to bury anything. What was the point?

"Nothing? So, this isn't permanent? What we have isn't permanent? 221B? It isn't permanent? Because as far as I was concerned, loving you is permanent. Living in 221B is permanent. This life that we have, it was supposed to be permanent. But I don't know anymore. Maybe that's just not _who I am_."

"Sherlock…"

"No. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this isn't permanent."

"Sher! You can't be serious! I'm sorry, I love you! I'm just stressed out, and trying to figure out what to do."

The detective sat down, numb. He didn't know what to do. He got up again and began pacing. Heavy rain beat on the window, filling the painful silence.

"I'm not going to let this tear us apart," Sherlock whispered, still facing the window. "I'M NOT GOING TO LET THIS DESTROY MY LIFE," Sherlock shouted angrily, his voice cracking with emotion.

"Neither am I."

"That's all you have to say?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Everything that I think and feel, you could easily deduce. Either that or I've already said it. You _will_ beat this. You _will _win this race."

Sherlock turned around, and strode slowly towards his blogger. His hands still trembled, but not nearly as badly as they had before. After all, he had only taken a very small amount.

"I will. I promise. For you."

"For me?"

"Yes. I don't want you to have to fight my battle. I don't want you to have to watch me suffer through what I had to suffer through before. I want you to feel safe. Comfortable. I want you to have a life where you don't have to worry about the love of your life overdosing. And so I'll do it for you."

"The love of my life?"

"That is what I said, isn't it?"

"Sherlock, this is not the time for romantics," John smiled giddily, despite the circumstances.

"But was I wrong?"

"Not at all."

"I will win this battle."

"I know."

With each word, they came closer and closer. Sherlock's hand slipped around John's waist, pulling him closer.

Their lips brushed gently, a smile spreading across Sherlock's face.

"We'll be okay."

"For now."

"No."

"No?"

John kissed his detective's cheek and twisted one of the chocolate curls around his finger before giving an answer, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Permanently."


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry for the extremely distressing chapter, guys. But all lives end, and all hearts are broken. We have to deal with it. **

* * *

Despite Sherlock's promise to stay off the drugs _permanently_, that's not what happened. The couple had begun to get more and more cases, both of their inboxes overflowing with requests. They had caught up with their rent, and Lestrade wasn't helping out anymore. But despite getting rid of one problem, the other just got bigger. And much, much worse.

So when John found his flatmate (and lover) passed out on the couch with an empty syringe for the fourth time that month, he realized that Sherlock had pulled that last straw a long time ago.

"Sherlock! Sherlock can you hear me!" John rushed over, and shouted at Sherlock, worried that, despite his best efforts, Sherlock had lost the race he'd been running his whole life.

John checked for a pulse. Thank god, he still had one. But it was much faster than it should've been.

"Sherlock can you hear me!" John yelled again. And this time, the detective woke up. His eyes jolted open, his pupils as big as saucers. He looked around, and when he realized what had happened, he cried out.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John groaned, standing up and walking across the room. He sat down in his armchair and put his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry, John. I swear I am."

And that there? That was the moment that John realized how much he had sacrificed and put up with over the past few months just to keep order in their lives. Just to keep a pleasant façade up. Time for that mask to come off.

"Sorry? That's all you have to say? A weak, useless, _pathetic_ excuse for an apology, that's what that is. This is the fourth time this month that I've walked in to see this sorry sight. And every single time, I'm worried that you're gone. That even though you promised, you've left me. _Again._"

Sherlock sat up, raking his hands furiously through his curls.

"You think this is easy, John? Being me? You think I _want _to be this way? You think I _want _to lose control and tear myself apart every waking moment of my life? Because contrary to your belief, I _don't._"

"But you promised you would _fight!_"

"I am fighting! I am doing everything I can to stop, but it doesn't seem to be enough!" Sherlock shouted, glaring in frustration at John.

"You have to get your act together, Sherlock. I hate to hit you with reality, but if you keep doing this, you'll die. You'll go overboard. And I'll come home, and you'll be lying on that couch, passed out as always. But you won't just be passed out. You'll be gone. Forever."

John rambled, getting louder with each statement. He felt tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks, so he turned away. Enough tears had been shed already; he didn't want Sherlock to see him cry _again._

As he was about to turn back around, he felt Sherlock's arms wrap gently around his waist. He felt the detective's lean and muscular body press against him, in an attempt to calm and comfort him. But John refused to be comforted.

He whipped around, slapping Sherlock. Hard. Sherlock stumbled backward, holding his face with one hand. His lower lip trembled violently, as he looked at John with desperation and pain in his eyes. An expression of concern and regret flickered across John's face for a moment, but then the rage and unrelenting glare was back.

"John…" Sherlock said, his voice strangled with confusion and hurt.

"Sherlock, you can't just hug me and expect everything to be okay! You can't wish away problems, or just accept your addiction because you think that's 'who you are'. It's not who you are, it's sick and terrible and it's ruining our lives!"

"This is who I am, John! Don't you see?! The first day we met. Think about it. You were convinced I wasn't a junkie. You wanted to believe it so badly that you made it your reality. But regardless of the fact that you've been tucked away the reality, that's not what happened on my end. I've always been an addict, and a terribly adamant one at that. You think I'm getting hit with reality? Or is it you? I've known my reality, my truth, this whole time. I'm very aware that I could die, John. I've accepted it, in fact. But it's clear that you haven't."

Sherlock half-shouted and half-growled the words he spat out. With each phrase he paced the room, pausing once in a while to gesture or throw a book across the room.

"Fine, Sherlock maybe I am getting hit in the face with reality. Doesn't mean it's easy!"

John retaliated, his voice cracking as he realized that he really _was_ the one who had buried away the truth this whole time.

Sherlock cleared his throat, collecting himself and his thoughts before speaking once more.

"I can change. I know I can. What I don't understand is how this is harder than going through detox when I first came back."

"I don't know either Sherlock, but this has to change."

"Or what, John? Because you haven't done a hell of a lot to help me."

John looked at Sherlock incredulously.

"I've done nothing to _help you?_ Pardon me, Mr. Junkie, but I've done nothing _but _help you. I'm the only one who's been here for you this whole time. Haven't you noticed that Lestrade, and Mike, and Molly, and _everyone_ have given up on you? I'm not the only one you have to convince, Sherlock."

"Okay, I know I can CHANGE!" Sherlock yelled, talking more to himself than John.

"Can you? Can you really? Because I gave you plenty of chances, Sherlock. And you blew every single one."

Sherlock looked over from the position he had taken at the window, and directly into John's eyes. His piercingly blue eyes bored through John's skull as he tried to read what his lover was thinking.

"Oh, trying to deduce me now, are we? Perfect, just perfect…" John sighed sarcastically, pacing around the room.

"Not anymore, I'm just going to ask you."

"Alright, go ahead."

"What's going to happen from here on out?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well you clearly aren't sleeping in my bed tonight, as we usually do, and you're upset beyond belief. You've said that something needs to change, and I can tell that it isn't _just_ going to be getting rid of my drugs," Sherlock recited his typical monologue, then faltered before saying, "What's the other thing that's going to change."

He looked scared as he said it, as he looked at John, his eyes watering. He knew something big was going to happen. But he didn't want to know what it was, much less for it to happen.

John became dangerously calm, slowly strolling towards the armchair.

"John."

The answer came quickly and suddenly, as John turned around and calmly uttered the two words that brought Sherlock's world crashing down.

"I'm leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Sherlock I gave you multiple chances to save yourself. To save us. Everything. I still love you. That will never change. But I'm leaving 221B."

"No. You can't," the consulting detective said, barely holding back a sob.

"Oh, but I can," John said determinedly, walking towards the door. Sherlock watched, as the love of his life got ready to walk out.

"But- but this is home."

John stopped for a moment before turning around and saying coldly, "Not anymore."

And with that, he was gone. Sherlock let out wrenching sobs as he realized what had happened.

* * *

Alone.

Fearful.

Cold.

Sherlock lay on the couch, too weak to get to the bed. He lay still, plagued by pain in his heart and numbness in his brain.

Pitch darkness slowly washed over the room, bathing Sherlock in the color of the demons that haunted him.

He didn't want to wake up again.

His reason to live had just walked out the door.

John Hamish Watson was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock lay there for days.

Days became weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

And with every moment that passed by, he lost a little more hope. The hope that John would return, the hope that life would go on. And life did go on. It went on without him. Molly kept doing post-mortems, Lestrade continued to get frustrated by cases, Donovan kept making smartass comments, and Mycroft continued to gain weight and complain about it. The Earth kept turning, but Sherlock wasn't with it. He was in shadowed oblivion. Alone.

Sherlock didn't get off of that couch. He didn't eat, and didn't sleep. He spent his countless hours scratching his mind raw, tearing himself apart inside.

He became so weak that he could barely move. Barely speak. Mycroft dropped by every few days to check on his younger brother. To make sure he hadn't slipped off into darkness. To Mycroft, Sherlock would always be his little brother who needed protection and saving. And while Mycroft's perception of his brother had been out of date for quite a long time, it was slowly becoming reality. Sherlock did need saving. And soon.

* * *

"Brother dear, where are you?" Mycroft asked, exasperated.

He strolled in, cane in hand as usual. He scanned the flat, until his eyes landed on his younger brother, silent and still on the couch. Also as usual.

"Sherlock, I realize that your life has just crumbled at your feet, and that even I cannot locate John for you. I am painfully aware of all of this recent activity. And while I take great pleasure in making sure you haven't left this world, I cannot continue to do so for the rest of your life," Mycroft said, his voice dripping with sarcasm at first, and then becoming more sincere than Sherlock had ever heard it.

Sherlock continued to lie still, barely processing what the elder Holmes had said.

"Sherlock, you must get up."

And then, Sherlock spoke for the first time in months. Barely above a whisper, he said three words.

"What's the point."

"I wish I knew. But you have to try," Mycroft replied, a hint of desperation coming through his unnaturally cool and collected façade.

"Why."

"Don't leave me as well, Sherlock. You are already a figure of the past to many. A ghost. An apparition that has retreated to his darkest place."

Those words that left Mycroft's lips caused a spark in the consulting detective. A spark that shed a very small amount of light on who he had been before. A spark that got the gears turning.

"I'm not from the past. I'm still here," Sherlock muttered, still weak.

"Barely, brother dear. Barely."

And with those words, Mycroft strolled out once more. Leaving Sherlock to fight it out with the monsters that taunted him.

He would return in a few days, to check in once more. But he could never be prepared for what he would find when he did.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted up the stairs once again, a week later. He walked in the door, to find an empty flat. Sherlock wasn't on the couch. Mycroft's first reaction was to panic. But once he got past the panic, he thought logically. At least his younger brother wasn't _still _lying hopelessly and barely breathing on the couch.

"Mycroft, I should have you know that I'm in my bedroom, and that you woke me up. Would you like me to get some decent sleep, or not?" Sherlock snapped from his room.

Regardless of the unpleasant tone, and demand to leave, Mycroft grinned wider than he had in months. His brother was sleeping. Sleeping!

"Unbelievable…" The elder Holmes muttered.

Disregarding Sherlock's request to be left alone, Mycroft strolled into the bedroom. The sight that greeted him was the slightest bit painful, but also quite comical in a way.

The consulting detective was curled up into a fetal position, the familiar white duvet wrapped around him so that he looked like a burrito. Sherlock Holmes was literally a baby burrito. The painful part was the fact that despite his usual fierce demeanor, Sherlock was still weak. He was pale as a vampire, and his eyes were ringed with a deep shade of purple. The large duvet disguised the fact that he was stick-thin. If he had removed that duvet, it would become apparent that his ribs were sticking out, and his limbs were scarily skinny.

"I told you not to come in!" Sherlock barked.

"Dear brother, I am genuinely pleased by your choice to sleep," Mycroft laughed, not being able to help himself. "What changed your mind?"

"I have to get better. That starts with sleep. I'll try and eat in a day or two. I've already gone through detox, so at least that's gone. But I have to do this. I refuse to be seen as physically and mentally weak when my I am normally anything but."

Mycroft nodded, a pleased smile spreading across his face.

"What?" Sherlock demanded to know, his brow furrowing.

"You haven't told me _why._"

"John. I thought it was obvious."

"I did finally manage to track him for you."

"Where is he?!"

"Renting a small flat nearby. No other partner. No other friends, honestly. He's detached himself, Sherlock."

"We'll fix that soon enough."

"Well, you were wrong in one sense."

"I'm never _wrong,_ Mycroft."

"You said you didn't have a heart, when you confronted Jim Moriarty. You were wrong."

"How did you know about that?"

"I have cameras and watchmen everywhere, brother."

"Of course, how could I be so _stupid,_" Sherlock groaned sarcastically.

"You have a heart, and I'll be damned if John hasn't captured it for eternity."

"You're right once again, brother _dear_."

"Good day, baby burrito brother of mine."

"Hey!"

"Byyyeeeee!"

* * *

Over the next few days, Sherlock slept. And slept. And slept some more. He was still weak. Don't forget, he hadn't eaten in many weeks. But it was a start.

Sherlock got up for the first time in a week of endless sleeping and snoring on Friday. It was a big moment. But he knew he could do it. So he stood up, and immediately fell over onto his face. How anti-climactic.

"Godammit…" Sherlock muttered, flopping like a helpless fish. At least Mycroft wasn't there to see it. Or Lestrade. Mycroft would never have let him forget about it, and Lestrade would record it and put it online. Neither was preferable.

He had miscalculated, and forgotten the fact that he was too weak to walk. Some food would definitely help him get some of his strength back. Sherlock pushed himself up to a sitting position and reached for the rolling office chair in the corner of the room. He rolled himself slowly to the kitchen, seeing the tiles and shiny counters for the first time in months. The only thing that was missing was… John. John and his tea, his jumpers, and his insistence that Sherlock stuff some food down his throat.

"I'm doing this for John. I'm 'stuffing some food down my throat' for John," Sherlock grunted with determination as he rolled himself to the refrigerator.

One would think that the selection of food would be virtually nonexistent, considering the months gone without it. But Mycroft was smart, and had predicted his younger brother's return to the land of the living. He had filled the fridge with a large range of foods, from chicken to chocolate cake.

"_Signature _Mycroft," Sherlock shook his head, chuckling despite the circumstances. None other than Mycroft Holmes would buy and place a chocolate cake in someone else's fridge simply so that he could feel the guilty thrill of sneaking into the flat in the middle of the night to grab a slice of someone else's cake.

And as his eyes scanned the wide range if foods available to him, Sherlock felt something. Something he had never felt before in his life. It was different. Unpleasant. Confusing.

Low and behold, it was hunger.

The detective grabbed a little bit of everything, heated up the things that needed to be heated up, and put it all on a plate. He rolled himself to the couch, situating himself in front of the telly, which he promptly turned on.

_"8 murders, similar in nature, but mysterious to the public and the private inspectors alike. Detective Inspector Lestrade has refused all interview requests, disappointing the populace, and depriving them of information and/or instruction. Additionally, Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Watson are nowhere to be found. Are these two situations linked? We'll be back after the break, this has been London News."_

"Damn it!" Sherlock roared, throwing the remote at the telly and breaking the screen. "One bloody day. One bloody day without reporters."

Sherlock had grown to dislike reporters after the Fall, because of the way they covered his story, and especially because of the way they pestered John about it. It was cruel and unusual punishment to suffer through after your best friend had just jumped off a rooftop.

So Sherlock sat and ate in silence, the sound of raindrops on the roof bringing him down from his attack on the telly. He wolfed down potstickers, roasted chicken, Risotto, a wide variety of fruit, spaghetti, and of course, a large slice of chocolate cake.

As he was finishing the last bite of chocolate cake, he heard someone open the door.

"Thank you for the chocolate cake, Mycroft. But I should have you know that you won't be getting any this time," Sherlock shouted down the stairs, assuming his brother had come for his usual check-in. But when the footsteps reached the doorway, it was none other than George. No wait, Geoff. No, Greg. Yes. Greg Lestrade.

He had an uneasy look on his face as he silently walked into the flat and sat down opposite Sherlock.

"Oh, hello Greg. What brings you to 221B?"

"Hey, you remembered my name," Lestrade chuckled awkwardly, seeming extremely uncomfortable.

"So?"

"Um, well, I came to tell you something."

"C'mon _Greg,_ spit it out."

"Fine. Um… John. He um… well, he shot himself through the stomach about 2 days ago."

After seeing the immensely shocked and panicked look on Sherlock's face, Lestrade continued quickly, trying to reassure the detective.

"His neighbor heard the gunshot and rushed him to the hospital, where he went into Intensive Care. He's still with us, thank god."

Sherlock felt like he had been the one shot through the stomach. His insides twisted around painfully, like writhing pythons trying to escape. Hot tears ran in streams down his face, as he gulped for air.

"Th- this is all my fault, I should have gone after him when he left. I should've texted him, or called, or something. I- I should've _tried_."

"Sherlock, you're trying now. You're doing _really _well. You might be able to walk tomorrow, right?" Lestrade put his hand gently on Sherlock's shaking back, trying to give what comfort he could.

"No. I can't wait that long. I- I have to see him now," Sherlock demanded, shuddering as he did so. His tears hadn't stopped flowing.

"But you can't walk."

"Then get me a wheelchair godammit!" Sherlock roared, then immediately softened up again, putting his head in his hands.

"Okay, okay. You can see him today. Let's carry this thing down the stairs," Lestrade sighed, rolling the bedsheet-clad Sherlock towards the door.

* * *

As Sherlock wheeled down the hospital corridor, he contemplated what he could possibly say to John once he got into that bleak little room. What could possibly make John forgive him?

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered dejectedly. He turned to face the door of the room next to him. 213. This was the one. The detective sat for a moment, not sure whether he should go inside. Whether John would want to kiss him or kill him. It was a complete toss-up, and he could be putting everything into jeopardy.

"Well, that's what I do best, isn't it? Risk my life for kicks?" He chuckled to himself, remembering their first case together. And with that, he rolled himself into the room, where he would likely face the most emotionally crippling thing he had experienced since… well, probably last week. But anyway.

John looked like a corpse. His whole middle had been patched up, and white bandages were wrapped around his waist. His skin was as pale as the bandages, and cold to the touch. Tubes ran an IV drip to his arm; oxygen to his nose, and many others snaked across his body to various locations, trying to keep him alive. He looked small in the bed, miniscule almost. Once an army doctor, he was now subject to what he had done to others. Weak and in pain, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock roll in the door.

_Don't talk to him. _

_No. _

_Wait why is he in a wheelchair? Ugh, never mind that._

_This is his fault. All of it. _

_He didn't run after me. He didn't stop me._

_He didn't try._

The thoughts raced through John's mind as he saw his boyfriend roll through the door, a sad smile on his face. The façade was caring and calm, but John could see the panic just below the surface, even if he _was_ drugged with pained meds.

Sherlock reached the side of the bed, where he lightly touched John's hand. The hand he hadn't touched in so long. While it was still dreary and painful, it was also absolutely wonderful to touch the love of his life once more.

_What if John doesn't see me that way anymore?_

_Didn't he say he would always love me though?_

_Never mind that, people change. _

_Oh wait, what's he doing._

_Wait._

_WAIT._

_AHHH._

_OH SHIT._

The voices in Sherlock's head knew what was happening before he did. And so his thoughts were casually interrupted by John's fist connecting with the detective's cheek. For a pained, drugged, and short man, he sure packed a punch.

"You… You utter…" John tried to speak, but the morphine was getting to him, and the punch had taken a considerable amount of energy. He must've really wanted to punch Sherlock… Ouch.

"John I think the word you're looking for is 'cock'. I am an utter cock. See? I completed that sentence quite nicely. And quite correctly, I'm afraid," Sherlock said, trying to lighten the mood just a bit. "You should know that I have a pretty large arsenal of jokes and references."

"Well you are a pretty large _arse._"

"Well, I'm an arse that you love, because once again, you avoided my nose and teeth."

"Oh yes, the Woman."

"Ugh, women."

This comment elicited a chuckle from the exhausted John, as he reminisced about that case. Oh, the Dominatrix had made him so jealous.

"You're still an arse, you know."

"And you still love me."

"I can't seem to help it."

"You should probably get some more rest. We'll talk about what happened in a couple hours. Is that alright?" Sherlock tentatively asked, remembering why John was here in the first place.

"Okay. You'll stay here?"

"Of course."

"G'night Sher."

"It's not night time, love."

"Whatever. Good Sleepytime, you arse."

"Good Sleepytime to you too, John."


	14. Chapter 14

**This chapter doesn't advance plot that much, but I hope you like it all the same! **

* * *

_This phonecall… it's my note._

_That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note. _

_Goodbye John. _

John jerked awake, letting out a cry of anguish as he did so. Those last words he had heard before Sherlock jumped and hit the pavement. Or at least it seemed.

He looked around, taking in his surroundings and settling down a bit, his heart rate steadily decreasing back to a normal pace.

"John, are you okay?" Sherlock had been woken up much too suddenly by John's return to reality.

"Yeah… I'm fine. I guess."

Sherlock took John's hand in his own, and squeezed gently.

"Nightmare?"

"You guessed it. I mean, my life is already a _living _nightmare, do I really need to be haunted in my sleep as well?"

Ouch. That definitely stung. Sherlock tried to shrug it off, but the comment burrowed its way into Sherlock's mind palace, where it definitely _didn't _belong.

"Afghanistan?"

"No. You. Falling. Jumping, more like it. Jumping to a fake death."

Once again, the comment stung.

"Oh… I'm sorry. I thought we were over that by now."

"I tried. But it's hard to not hold resentment, even if just a small amount, against the person who crushed your heart and soul by jumping off St. Bart's."

"Okay, now I have to ask," Sherlock sighed, letting go of John's hand and staring at him confusedly. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"You know exactly what."

"Making you feel horribly guilty?"

"Yes."

"I made a list. Here, we'll go in chronological order. You jumped off a building, you came back still an addict, you got it together for a while and then _proceeded _to do opiates a while later, and that brings us to the present. Where you are the cause of my own attempted suicide."

"I told you I was sorry. I'm here now, in a wheelchair. Why? Oh yes, I remember now. For _you._ My life hasn't been wonderful either. I got so weak that I couldn't move or talk."

"Yes, Sherlock. But I tried to make it so that I could never move or talk ever again. I wanted to end it."

"So did I, but I didn't have the strength to."

"I was a soldier."

Those three words made both of the disabled men crack a smile. They were both deathly angry at one another. That hadn't changed. But those three words.

"You were a doctor," Sherlock replied, taking John's hand once more.

"I had bad days."

"Was the day you tried to end it a bad day?"

"You bastard."

"Sorry. Had to do it. I'm a sociopath, remember?"

"How could I forget?" John gave a light smile, but then his face settled back into an expression that Sherlock liked to call, 'John Watson reporting for duty.'

"But yes, it was a very bad day. I felt like nothing would ever be alright again. Like nothing would ever be happy. Cheerful. Like all the joy had been sucked out of the world a long time ago, and like it would never come back."

"Listen, can we forget about this? I want to start over."

"No."

"No?"

"No, we cannot just forget about it. I'll always remember this day. This is the day that both of us are at our most vulnerable. Our weakest. The day where neither of us is the better man, or the hero."

"I thought you didn't believe in heroes, Sher."

"I don't. That's exactly my point."

"Never mind. So, are we going to move past this months long row?"

"I'm willing if you are."

"Well the alternative isn't pleasant, so yes. I am willing."

"Good, because I love you and I'm not going to let anyone or anything take you from me."

"Even if someone did try, they would have to get me out of these tubes, and out of this hospital bed while still keeping me alive. And then they'd have to face you. In your wheelchair. How intimidating."

"Shut up."

"No."

"No?"

"I like it when you get all defensive."

"I like you."

"Oh come on John. I know you're barely breathing, but you could have gone for a less cheesy response."

John grinned and punched him in the arm.

"How did we even get here, Sher."

"I don't know, but it's insane and wonderful."

"Minus the attempted-suicide and not-being-able-to-function bits."

"Yes, those were not pleasant."

Sherlock pressed a rather chaste kiss to John's lips and smiled. Their life wasn't perfect. Far from it, in fact. It was messy, and ridiculous, and heart wrenching at times. But without all the bad, there would be nothing to compare all the good to.

"How do we manage to transition from stinging comments to sarcastically loving ones?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

* * *

John and Sherlock arrived back home about 2 weeks later. The only downside? They were both still in wheelchairs. Which made it all the funnier for Lestrade, who had a new phone-video to add to his collection.

Technically, Sherlock could've probably walked with a crutch by now. But he decided to stay in a wheelchair so he could be at the same level as John. Physically as well as emotionally. Both disabled, both traumatized, but together.

They made Mycroft and Lestrade carry them up the stairs, just for laughs. Once them and their wheelchairs were safely in 221B, Lestrade and Mycroft were dismissed.

"Tea?"

"John, think that through."

"What?"

"You can't even reach the counter!"

John looked over at the counter, gauged its height, and then growled.

"Brilliant. That's just bloody brilliant."

"Do you want to catch a good night's rest?"

"I thought you didn't sleep, Señor Insomnia."

"I said you, not me."

"Clever bastard."

"Thank you."

John grinned and rolled as close as he could to Sherlock's chair.

"I really want to kiss you but I can't."

The detective just smiled quietly and looked at his legs. After a few seconds, he used the armrest to help him stand up.

"Okay now you're a _lying _clever bastard."

Sherlock leaned in and took John's lips in his own. He removed both his arms from the armrests and tried to take a small step towards John to close their bodily distance. However, Sherlock still couldn't walk. And so he plummeted down, landing in John's lap at an awkward angle.

"Well that did _not _go as planned."

John observed Sherlock for a moment, a calculating expression washing over his face.

"What?" Sherlock laughed lightly.

"Can you get up?"

"No… probably not."

"Well then it's settled. You're coming to bed with me and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Jooohhhhnnnnn!" Sherlock whined, letting his head hang lazily back.

John grinned triumphantly as he wheeled them both to the bedroom.

"Wait, John. How do we get into bed?"

"C'mon, can't I have my one moment of victory?"

"Never."

"Selfish arse."

"Maybe so, but I'm _your _selfish arse."

"There's no getting rid of you, is there?"

"Well as long as you love me, you wouldn't throw me out anyway."

"Bugger."

"I love you too."


	15. Chapter 15

"John! Wake up! We have a case!"

Sherlock shook John violently, waking the poor man from his rather pleasant dream.

A few weeks had passed since their return to 221B, and after a very long delay, the game was finally back on.

"Sherlock, bloody hell. How late is it?" John groaned, sitting up nonetheless.

"It's 5:00 PM. You slept the whole day. But we have to go to a gay bar, and you have absolutely no clothes for that sort of atmosphere."

"Shit, I slept the whole day?"

"Yes, now hurry up, we have to make you look _really_ gay before 10:00 rolls around," Sherlock called as he strolled out of the bedroom.

"We don't usually go to gay bars… are you sure about this?"

"It's for a case, John! Now get dressed!"

John shrugged and hopped out of bed. He never thought he would spend his evening _trying _to look gay.

"Wait, what are _you_ going to wear?" He shouted to Sherlock. The detective walked in lazily and leaned on the doorframe.

"You'll see," he smirked, his eyes glinting. "You'll enjoy it, though. I _promise._"

And out he strolled once more. But before he did, he noted the growing bulge in John's trousers.

"Well, I certainly haven't been left with much dignity, have I," John muttered, barely loud enough for his lover to hear.

"Nope!"

* * *

"Okay, how about this one?"

John tentatively stepped out of the dressing room, shrugging at Sherlock, who put the tips of his fingers in front of his lips in his classic thinking position.

"Well, what do you think? There's only so long I'm going to stand here while you stare at me."

"Believe me, John. You're getting stared at for all the right reasons," Sherlock smirked and shook his head, taking in the view that was his boyfriend.

John blushed, looking down at the outfit he had chosen. He had on black jeans, which he'd paired with a tight-fitting, deep blue T-shirt. It was an incredibly simple combination, but it made Sherlock's stomach do a flip-flop.

"So we'll take these then?" John suggested, looking in the mirror.

"You should dress like that all the time, my dear army doctor. Your military training has done wonders for your muscular prominence."

"Well, thanks Sher," John smiled and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. "That's quite a compliment coming from the most gorgeous man in England."

John changed back into his normal clothes, and the two went to the cash register with the jeans and the shirt. And somehow Sherlock managed to slip in another pair of jeans. Sneaky bastard.

"So, we're heading back to the flat, then?" John asked as they got into a cab.

"Yes, but only for a little while. We have a night of gay clubbing ahead of us. And crime-solving, of course."

"Hold on, you haven't even told me about the case yet."

"That specific gay bar is home to many a drug dealer. A drug ring has developed, and that bar is the hot spot of activity. But all of a sudden, the dealers are turning up dead all over London. They were all killed the same way: a simple gunshot to the back of the head. So one person did this. But who would want to kill his dealers? Maybe the main man in all this. Why? That's what we're going to find out."

"Oh shit, Sherlock. Well, how do I conceal a gun in these tight clothes?"

"You don't have to conceal it. Guys with guns tend to be considered appealing."

"We're going to try and bring down a drug and murder operation, not get hit on."

"Well that's still_ part_ of the fun of this."

"Insanity, that's what this is."

"Oh look we're home!" Sherlock exclaimed as the cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street.

"How convenient."

* * *

"Sherlock, it's show time! Whatcha got?" John clapped his hands and rubbed them together, anxiously waiting to see Sherlock's "gay clubbing" clothes.

"Okay, here goes nothing," Sherlock called as he stepped out of the bathroom and practically _strutted_ towards John.

Sherlock in leather was a beautiful sight. Tight leather pants accentuated every perfect curve of his long legs, and a maroon-colored, silk, button shirt stretched across his well-muscled chest. A leather jacket hugged his frame as he walked towards John. The best part? His hair was ruffled in a _gorgeous_ manner, so that he looked like he'd just had incredible sex and forgotten to straighten it up.

"Damn, Sherlock. You were right. I am _thoroughly _enjoying myself right now."

"Told you, didn't I?" Sherlock said, his lips tilting upwards on one side. John wrapped his arms around the detective's neck and kissed the smirk away.

"Ready to go crime-solve in a very gay manner?"

"Isn't that what we usually do?"

"Shut up."

"Never!" Sherlock shouted gleefully as he practically flew down the stairs.

* * *

The bar was crowded, and neon lights darted across the room like lasers. As Sherlock and John walked in, many a head turned. Sherlock grinned and slipped his hand into John's back pocket. And as he did so, the winks and eyebrow raising turned into jealous glaring.

"I'm glad you did that when you did. That guy was giving you quite the look," John chuckled.

"Which one?"

"Arrogant bastard."

"It's not my fault that I'm attractive."

"Now you're a _really _arrogant bastard."

"But you know it's true."

"Bugger."

"Worth it."

The two headed towards the bar, where even the bartender looked Sherlock up and down before asking what they wanted to drink.

"Martini for me, please. John?"

"Ummm… The same for me."

"Coming right up, gentlemen!" the bartender shot them a thumbs up as he retrieved glasses.

Sherlock perched himself upon a bar stool and scanned the room.

"What are you looking for?" John asked, hopping into a bar stool next to Sherlock.

"Our main man. He could be anywhere. But he knows we're coming, so he'll make himself apparent soon enough. Until then, we drink it up and go dance. Sound like a plan?"

"Well it's not as crazy as the time when you made us jump in front of a bus. Or the time we texted a murderer. Or the time we broke into a secure military base to investigate a rabbit. So let's go dance, shall we?"

Sherlock took John's hand and together, they jogged towards the dancefloor.

It was hot and sweaty, bodies rubbing up against bodies. For once, they really let go and had fun. They let their bodies go, moving to the music. Some dirty dancing ensued. And it was the first time in what seemed like forever that the crime-solving couple felt carefree. But it didn't last as long as John and Sherlock might've liked.

As Sherlock raked his hands through his hair and grinned at a very sweaty John, he felt someone force a piece of paper into his hand. Under normal circumstances, the detective would've passed it off as someone slipping their phone number into his hand. But these were no normal circumstances.

He turned around to see a man clad in a purple suit stroll off the dancefloor, and towards the storage room.

"John, follow me," Sherlock panted, grabbing John's arm and dragging him out of the sea of dancing bodies.

"Wait, why?"

"Our guy just showed up. And his message is pretty clear," Sherlock said, holding up the note he had been slipped.

_Follow me. Now. _

* * *

"So, you got my message, Mr. Holmes?" A call came from the back of the storage room. Large, slatted boxed towered to the ceiling, obscuring the speaker. Rows and columns were strategically ordered throughout the large cement room, like one giant maze.

Sherlock strolled boldly forward, taking in his surroundings.

"Rather a clever set up, don't you think?" the voice called once more.

"Hardly. A maze of boxes. A simple set-up so that you have the upper hand."

"Oh Mr. Holmes, that wasn't my intention at all! You see, I had my friends set this up a few hours ago. I have no clue where you are and you don't seem to know where I am. This way, it's a game."

"If and when we meet, it will be fate," Sherlock stated, completing the explanation.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes! Do you mind if I call you Sherlock?"

Sherlock strolled forward, heading towards the entrance of the maze.

"That's a bit too familiar, don't you think?"

"Well, don't you want to get to know me?"

"You're a murdering drug lord. Not particularly."

"Point made. Shall we begin our little game? Your move first, I insist."

"The game is on."

Sherlock strolled into the first entrance to the maze. He turned left, and continued walking. The next turn, he went right. John was following behind, nervously glancing about.

"Alright, your move."

"Here I go!" the voice called from across the room. Quiet footsteps followed, getting just a little bit closer.

Sherlock hesitated before asking what was probably the dumbest question a genius had ever asked a criminal.

"Let's speed this up, shall we? It's getting late, and John and I have an early bedtime. How about… Last one to the center is a sissy?"

"Ready."

"Set."

Sherlock got into running position and urged John to do the same before he finally roared, "Go!"

Force.

Motion.

Speed.

Heavy breathing somehow silent.

Panic on the back burner, only one breath away from reality.

Confidence filling every vein.

Calmness washing everything in white light.

They ran, and ran, and ran. Turning just before they hit the walls, barely looking ahead before making the next turn. The mystery man's footsteps were heavy and oddly quick, getting closer and closer.

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes. We're almost there!" the man's voice encouraged in a sing-songy voice.

"I'm not worried, dear _friend_," Sherlock answered with an odd calm in his voice. His pace slowed to a stroll. John came up behind him and leaned on the wall, panting.

"Almost theerrreeee…"

"No. We are there," the detective stated, his eyes becoming steely.

A shadow glided along the wall, slow footsteps matching the shadow's movements.

"Good to know that I can fake a deep British accent."

"Not good enough."

"Of course not, you're Sherlock Holmes. Just hoping to delay you enough to have some surprise on my side."

"Too bad."

"I know you very well, you know. Better than you might be comfortable with."

"And I know how you _dance._"

"I really thought I'd fooled everyone. Apparently not you. Damn. I'll have to work on that."

"How did you do it?"

"I have my ways."

"Time for us to have our first _dance,_ don't you think?"

"Indeed."

The figure finally stepped into the light, a smirk painting his face.

"Good to see you again, Sherlock."

"You too, Jim."


	16. Chapter 16

"Hold on!" John roared almost catatonically.

Jim stepped forward slightly, an expression of mock concern on his face.

"Oh John dear, do calm down. Admittedly, you are quite hot when you're angry. But you must get that under control if you want to play our little game right."

John's face turned somewhere between the color of a beet and a tomato as he sputtered, trying to find sufficient words to form a sentence.

"So Jim," Sherlock started out, taking a casual stance with his hands in his pockets. "How _did _you do it. C'mon. I know you want to tell me. In fact, you'd like to announce it to the whole world. You have an overwhelming sense of pride and a _remarkable _talent for narcissism. Too bad you can't tell the world about how _clever _you are. But you could at least tell me…"

Sherlock nursed along the speech, playing at Jim's weakness. The consulting criminal's only real flaw was his need to display. His incredible desire to get credit for everything he did. And luckily for Sherlock, Jim took the bait.

"Oh, it's fairly simple. Can't believe you fell for it," Moriarty shrugged, and then began smiling a bit too maniacally. "Hey, get it? _Fell_ for it."

Of course. Of all things to say. Of all puns to make. It _had _to be that one.

"Haven't heard that one before."

"Oh, don't lie. Lying isn't good, Sherly dear. It's quite damaging. I mean, you should know. You tricked the whole world into thinking you were dead. Bravo. But look where that got you."

"Being hypocritical now, are we?" Sherlock took a small stride forward, a cold and calculating gaze shaping his features.

"Oh, lighten up. Just poking about. Seeing if I can make you _dance._"

"Haven't we said that word enough by now."

"Indeed. Would you like to get out of this cold storage room and back to reality? Maybe talk about this at the bar? It's right there, you know. We could get a drink. All three of us. Just three mates, having ourselves a drink. What do you think?"

All of a sudden, John barreled forward, smashing Moriarty against one of the walls. His forearm pressed against Jim's windpipe, daring him to make a sound.

"If you think I'm going to go out there and have a drink with you and _my _boyfriend, you're incredibly mistaken. The last thing I want to do tonight is have drinks with the devil," John growled, his eyes burning with a desperate rage.

Jim didn't make an effort to get away. He just smiled. His eyes pleaded as he gestured for John to let up on his windpipe.

"Johnny boy, I'm only on the _side _of the devil. But even _I _am not he, and I do not deserve the position. Right, Sherlock?"

John turned his head just enough to be able to see Sherlock. The consulting detective tried to keep his cool composure, but he couldn't control the fact that his skin had gone white as a sheet. His eyes were cold and calculating, two small windows into his brilliance. But behind the genius was a hint of panic. A flicker of fear and unfortunate remembrance passed across his features.

But he quickly regained confidence and took a step forward.

"You really aren't the devil, Jim. You're right. You're a minion. Following some simple logic, if you were the devil, I would be God. However I've been informed by John that I'm not. So we're both just servants of higher powers, fighting our own battles under the radar. So…. What. Will this. Battle. Be."

Sherlock strolled forward slowly with his hands clasped his back. He gestured for John to remove the pressure from Moriarty's throat and step away.

"No."

"Oh, you are rather attractive when you're defensive," Jim said a little too hungrily.

"Shut up Jim," Sherlock snapped, and then raised his eyebrows at John. "John, let go."

"No. The last time I let you go, it was in the lab at Bart's. I was tricked into thinking that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, and I tried to get you to come with me. Honestly, I was trying to get you to care. In reality, you already knew I was being tricked, but that's not my point. My point is that I left you there. I let go. And when I came back, you were on the edge of the rooftop, telling me that you were going to jump. So I'm _deeply _sorry if I'm a bit _hesitant_ to let go," John snapped, disregarding the fact that his voice must've cracked at least 6 times.

Sherlock leaned in as close as he could to John, whispering so quietly that John could barely hear him, and ensuring that Moriarty couldn't hear what he said next.

"John, I love you. I love you more than I value my own life. And I do believe I made that clear on the day I jumped. So _please._ Please let go. I promise that if I thought he was dangerous right now, I would have shot him already. I promise that you are safe. And lastly, I promise that we'll never have to say goodbye again."

Sherlock pulled away and looked into John's eyes.

"So would you please let go."

John looked at Moriarty and removed his arm from his windpipe. The army doctor backed up against the wall opposite Moriarty and pulled out his gun.

"I'm going to at least keep this much control," John said, looking pointedly at both the consulting criminal and Sherlock.

Jim took a small step forward and adjusted his tie.

"Whatever you whispered to him, Sherly, it worked. Did you tell him you loved him? Oh that would be so very sweet."

"Too bad you can't love, Jim. It's really wonderful."

"Who says I can't love?"

"I do."

"I thought you weren't God."

"Oh, clever. While I do _love _clever, I love knowing what you want more. Go on, you narcissistic madman. Tell me what terribly brilliant game you have set up for me this time."

Sherlock stood so close to Jim that the tips of their noses were only about 3 inches apart. His eyes blazed, daring his adversary to speak.

"Chess, Sherlock. That's all it is. I know your brother and you prefer Operation, but I'm afraid that removing body parts isn't really my style. I prefer games of brilliance. Logic. And don't forget pride," Moriarty drawled out the last word. He stared at Sherlock with calm eyes. "So here's how it'll work, Sherlock. And John, dear. I must inform you that you aren't excluded from this game we're playing."

Jim stepped away from Sherlock, and strolled slowly behind him. Around him. Circling the consulting detective like prey. Sherlock stayed standing. Didn't turn, didn't stir. His arms remained behind his back, clasped calmly. As if the most dangerous criminal in the world wasn't within a few inches of him.

"Sherlock, I believe you're familiar with some of the simple guidelines of chess. Would you enlighten John and I?"

Sherlock didn't even leave a full second of silence before responding.

"Pieces can only move certain ways."

"What's a better way of saying that? C'mon, Sherlock. It has to sound a little bit _dangerous_."

"Some moves are _forbidden._"

"And what happens when, say, you aren't fully concentrated. What happens if you make a mistake or blunder."

"That piece can, and will, be taken by your opponent. Captured until the end of the game."

"Very good, Sherly. And when does the game end?"

This time Sherlock did hesitate for a few moments. He turned around to face Jim.

"When one of the players checkmates the other player's king. Then the game is over."

"Good. Very good."

Jim turned around and started strolling away, towards the door of the storage room.

"The game has begun. And I believe I'll make my move first," The consulting criminal said with mock surprise.

"Go right ahead Jim. I'm waiting."

Jim paused right before he reached the door, and turned around.

"Oh, no. Not right now, dear detective of mine. At a later date. I was simply calling what a layman might call 'dibs' on the first move."

"What makes me think I'll even play your little game of chess?"

"Well, if you didn't, that would be breaking the rules, wouldn't it? A pawn stepping out of place. You know there are consequences for that, Sherlock."

"And which pawn am I?"

"The King. As am I. Two rivaling rulers battling under the radar, as you put it previously. You'll be hearin' from me, Sherlock. But until then, here's some food for thought."

Jim tossed a small silver object towards Sherlock, which he caught. It was a silver key with an magpie carved into the head . A small note was attached.

"You remember our little game that ended both of us, don't you?"

"Very clever Jim," Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

And with that, Jim Moriarty was gone.

John pocketed his gun and sighed.

"What the bloody hell was that about?"

Sherlock held up the note attacked to the key for John to see.

_In a world of locked rooms, _

_The man with the key is king. _

_And honey, _

_You should see me in a crown._

* * *

Sherlock sat in his armchair, shaking fingers under his chin, and his mind elsewhere. He hadn't slept at all that night. He subconsciously heard John rustling about and getting out of bed.

"Morning, Sherlock," John said as he walked over and kissed his boyfriend lightly on the nose.

"Morning…" the detective sighed dismissively.

"Why the tone?"

"Mind Palace, John."

"Ah."

John nodded in understanding and went back to making his morning tea. They'd both been more than a bit shaken by their archenemy's sudden appearance at the bar, but Sherlock had been literally_ shaking_ since they got home. John was unaware of the cause but he was determined to find out at some point. Preferably when Sherlock had come back to reality.

He gulped down his tea quickly before hopping in the shower and getting dressed. But he didn't just get dressed in a normally comfy jumper or a cardigan. Not even a button-up shirt. No, John put on a pair of dark wash jeans and a tightly fitted, olive green t-shirt.

"Looking good, army doctor of mine," Sherlock smirked as John entered the living room.

"Thanks Sher. You back to reality?"

"Yes, I suppose so…" Sherlock drifted off, his face becoming cold and serious once more.

John sighed.

"And there you go again."

He grabbed his coat and shoes, and checked himself once more in the mirror before kissing Sherlock once more and heading towards the door.

"I'll just be out a little while, we're out of food again. Text me if something's wrong."

John hesitated and waited for the response that would ever come, before sighing, saying three last words, and leaving.

"I love you."

* * *

"John?" Sherlock was shaken from his thoughts by the slamming of the front door. He looked around, and upon realizing John's departure, sighed. What was the last thing John had said? The detective closed his eyes and tried to recall.

_"…We're out of food again…"_

_"I love you."_

Sherlock opened his eyes again. Dammit! He hadn't said it back. He grabbed his mobile phone to type out a quick text to his neglected lover.

**_Just wanted to tell you I love you. Apologies for being distant. –SH _**

* * *

John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He smiled as he read the text from Sherlock, and typed out a response.

**_It's alright, I know JM has been getting to you. Love you, see you in a few. –JW _**

He pocketed his phone and continued on his way to Tesco. It was a fine day, considering the fact that they had come face-to-face with the most dangerous and very much not-dead criminal in the world, less than 24 hours ago.

* * *

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, contemplating the events of the night before as he anxiously awaited John's arrival. Regardless of his absence from reality, he had been able to tell that John had questions.

The front door slammed, and uneven footsteps could be heard as John lugged grocery bags up the stairs.

"Hey Sherlock, you mind giving me a hand?" He asked, a bit out of breath. Sherlock got up from the table and grabbed two of the plastic bags and began to unload groceries in silence.

"Why the hostility, love?"

John questioned, his brow furrowed. He walked over and ran his fingers along the detective's arm, eventually reaching his hand. Which he held and squeezed lightly, in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

"It's… nothing."

"I can tell when you're lying, Sherlock."

"Fine."

The consulting detective took John's hand and led him towards the kitchen table, pulling out a chair for both of them. He gestured for John to take a seat and did so himself as well. His ran his shaking hands through his chocolate curls as John looked at him worriedly.

"Sherlock what's wrong. Why are you shaking. You've been shaking since we got home last night and you haven't stopped since."

Sherlock looked up with cold, hard, piercing eyes. But behind the tough-guy façade was a broken man with fears and an undying feeling of desperation.

"John, do you remember the last time my hands shook?"

"Um… yeah, actually I do. We were in Baskerville. And we were in the restaurant, sitting by the fire. Right after we got back from the 'hound-hunt' with Henry."

"Do you remember why I was shaking?"

John hesitated before a look of realization washed over him, which was immediately followed by a look of worry.

"You were scared. You had just gone out and seen something that you believed to be a myth. A figment of Henry's imagination. But you saw it, and that scared you have to death."

"Yes. Under normal circumstances I would request you not exaggerate how frightened I was. I do prefer to keep some of my dignity around our friends and colleagues. But right now, it is exactly how frightened I am. Half to death, as you said."

"But why? I mean, I realize that Moriarty is back and all, and believe me; I'm pretty frightened too. Shocked, to say the least. But if I know you at all, I know that you play these situations cool. You don't tend to let go of your thoughtful, collected demeanor. It's normal for me to be catatonic when our archenemy comes back from the dead, but you already knew it was him when you stepped into that room."

"Yes but do you remember the rules of chess?"

"Of course I remember the bloody rules of chess."

"Then you remember that certain pawns can move certain ways. And if they move the wrong way, there's punishment to be had."

"Oh Jesus… Let me guess. Your good friend Jim has made me a pawn."

"And you can only move certain ways. If you step out of line, there is harsh punishment to be had," Sherlock sighed, finishing John's sentence.

"Sherlock, chess ends when the king on either side is captured. Checkmate."

"Indeed. This game ends when one of us checkmates the other."

"You are not allowed to die. I've lost you once, and I nearly died from depression. The second time we were separated, I nearly committed suicide. I know it's awfully cliché, but you and me are a team. And I'm not losing you again."

Sherlock looked up with a single tear shining in his eye.

"I can't guarantee that I won't be the one who gets captured."

"Yes you can. You're clever. You're better than he is."

"We'll see."

Sherlock looked up sadly, a pathetic smile pulling at one side of his mouth.

"We have equal fears John. If you step out of line, I can guarantee that the consequences will be far from pretty. And if I get captured, well, it means death. Plain and simple. For once in my life, I cannot guarantee you that we will succeed. I cannot be sure that you will be okay. And I cannot tell you honestly that I will not lose this game. And that's what scares me. The fact that unless we play every move exactly right, I'm either going to lose you, or you're going to lose me."

"How good are you at chess?"

"Very good. Fantastic, brilliant, extraordinary, as you might say."

"Then all he can do is put you on edge. He can let us teeter on the edge. He can dangle us off the London Bridge if he so desires. But if we play this right, and you're as 'brilliant' as you say you are -which you have been in the past- then he can never push us off that ledge. And we have nothing to worry about."

Sherlock smiled, and stood. He walked swiftly over to his boyfriend and swept him up into a passionate kiss.

"Have I ever told you I love you?"

"Only once today."

"I love you."

"I love you too. Are you ready for game night with the devil?"

The consulting detective traced his finger along John's temple and a determined smirk shaped his features.

"The game is on."


End file.
